Author: Kathie

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

My daughter Olivia had to work on New Year’s Day. The night before, in the midst of New Year hoopla, we got hit with all sorts of weather – snow, ice, snow, rain, snow – and so I’d parked Hemi in the parking garage across the street. Livvy and I trudged through the slush and just before we reached the door to the bus depot/parking garage, Livvy cried, “There’s somebody laying against the door!”

There was. As I looked through the glass, I saw a young man, his head pressed firmly against the door, out cold. He was in a winter jacket and jeans, had a hat and gloves.

“He’s so young,” Olivia said.

He was.

I carefully opened the other door and as soon as I had it cracked, I could hear him snoring. As we stepped past him to the elevators, I swept him with my eyes, looking for steady respiration, nothing blocking his mouth, any signs of injury. He passed. He was simply sound asleep.

I had to get Olivia to work. But all the way, she talked about the young man, about if he was homeless, how could he be homeless so young, what could we do, what could she do. I dropped her off at the grocery store and then headed back. I decided to check on the young man in about an hour. And then at home, and at work, I promptly forgot.

Five hours later, I brought Olivia home. As we drove past the parking garage, I slowed the car and we both looked. We could see at least two people behind the glass doors, sitting on the floor. There were no buses on this holiday, so the warm lobby was closed. There was only this little glass enclosure that housed the elevators, so people could get to their cars up above.

Olivia looked at me, her mouth drawing down. I drove around the corner to home.

Inside, I told Michael about it. Olivia sat down to dinner, her face somber.

So…I pulled out a grocery bag and loaded it with some Lunchables, some apples, some tangerines, some bottles of water. And then Michael and I set out to the parking garage, leaving behind a brighter Olivia, eating her supper.

When we opened the glass doors, there were three people…and none of them were the young man. There were two men and a woman. They looked at us warily. “Hi,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

The sigh they released could have shook leaves from summer trees.

Each of them grabbed my hand and Michael’s as we handed out the food and water. Twice, the woman held on to me. “I’m Kelly,” she said. And then she told me her name a second time. It seemed so important to her to be called by name, to be someone, to be herself. “Hi, Kelly,” I said twice, and then a third time. “I’m Kathie.”

We reminded them of the location of the Salvation Army shelter, a short walk away, and the women’s shelters. When we returned to our home, I wished hard that I could do more.

So why is this a moment of happiness?

Because in the middle of a government brawl over putting up a ridiculous wall on our country’s southern border, despite the fact that the plaque next to the Statue of Liberty reads:

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

…despite the fact that we are keeping children, children, locked up in “camps” that make animal shelters look like the most luxurious hotel, despite the fact that some of these children have died, despite the fact that we live here and I am raising my child here…

My child still looked at a young man, sound asleep in the only warm place he could find, and she looked at him without judgement. She wanted to help.

She wanted to do what was right. I quickly forgot the young man for the better part of the afternoon. But Olivia didn’t forget and she reminded me of what is right and while I didn’t get to help the young man, I helped three others.    

And it’s my moment of happiness because besides bringing three people a meal, I was able to hold a scared woman’s hand and call her by name and give her, for just a moment, her personhood back.

This is the second time we’ve done this this winter. On our way back home, Michael quietly said, “I’ll start picking up a few more things when I do the grocery shopping.”

We’ll be doing it again. I’m happy to do it. I wish I didn’t have to.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.               

When I posted yesterday’s blog, I promised a bonus today – that I would post the short story mentioned in the blog. It’s called Shiny Wet, and it was written in 1997, just about 22 years ago! It was my first attempt at a second person (you-narrator) story and it was inspired by my experience of receiving colorful postcards in the mail, inviting me to attend a new church. When I began to submit the story, it was accepted almost immediately in a teeny newsletter-type magazine called Standard, which is no longer around. Then in 2006, it appeared again in a literary magazine called Bellowing Ark.

So here it is. By me, but at 22 years younger.

SHINY WET

A Short Story by

Kathie Giorgio

            You circled around it for a while.  The postcards started coming.  The first one showed up in your mailbox soon after the new year, and you were attracted by its soft green color, the color of spring.  It reminded you, in the middle of whitest winter, of grass and moss on the trees and the lake on overcast days.  You held the postcard, trembled in warmth, and then read the words Real Life scrolled across the front.  In a pale gray, a lacy gray, a soft doily of words.

            It was from a church.  A new church.

            And what, you thought, dropping the postcard on your counter, does church have to do with Real Life?

            It was cold and it was winter.  Snow and icicles.  The postcard ended up in your trash can and you forgot about it.

            Until the next week.  And another postcard.  Soft lavender this time, and as you held it, you thought of lilacs and daffodils, gladiolus and tulips.  You read the gray doily again.

            Real Life.

            In business print, but even there, the black was muted and the letters had no edges, the postcard told you about a church with Real People.  Facing Real Issues.  Real Problems.  The letters seemed to darken as they spelled out Divorce.  Bankruptcy.  Illness.  Depression.  And then they lightened, and you read Real Solutions.  Real Support.

            Huh, you thought.

            There was no church in your life.  No house of God, no retreat, no place you could call truly peaceful.  There was only your apartment and your office.  Not even your own office, really, but a big room shared with other workers, tapping on computers and half-smiling at you from time to time over their terminals.  And there were all the little stores and stops in between.  The grocery store.  The library, the laundromat.  And friends’ homes as well.

            You talked with Real People.  You smiled and nodded at them every day in the aisles of the grocery store, and over the churning of washing machines and dryers.  You talked with friends on the telephone, telling them about your day, your week, your weekend. Sometimes you joined them at the movies, and other times, you stayed at home and watched television.

            Your home was your sanctuary.  You could walk naked there.  There was only you and the television and the refrigerator and the coffeemaker.

            Setting down the postcard, you thought of a sanctuary with Real People.  The croon of conversation, the shared air breathed in and out in sighs and exclamations and laughs.  The easy churning of Real People’s brains as they stopped and thought, paused and spoke.

            You didn’t throw away that postcard.  You put it on your dresser.  And you noted the opening date.  The first Sunday in March.

            The postcards kept coming.  Scattered on your dresser, they threw sunshine and blue skies, bird calls and fresh rain.  You began to gather them in the morning before work, stack and shuffle them, and then spread them across the dresser again.  Different patterns of pastels each day, and each day, they reminded you of spring.  You looked out your window at the snow and ice and bare trees and you smiled.

            Driving by churches on your way to work, you slowed and looked at them.  Large buildings, concrete and brick, crosses slapped against the sides, or teetering on the roof like a stick figure about to jump.  The last church you attended was like these.  You remembered the giant crucifix, the figure of Christ, hanging ten times human size above the altar.  The dark beige of suffering, the half-closed eyes, lips turned down, hair straggling over shoulders.  The only color the red spots of blood on the palms, the crossed ankles.  Other statues stood by, eyes downcast, mouths pouting, hands outstretched.  The shadows of stained glass bled onto the floor, and you sat quietly in a pew between your mother and father.  The priest talked above you, and you could feel the words flying over your head, down the long aisle, and smacking up against the closed wooden doors.  If you slipped into a nap, lulled by the muted voices, your father would pinch your arm.  If you began playing with your fingers, or the hem of your skirt, or if you swung your heels, your mother would swat your knee with her missal.  You tried to join in with the words spoken by the congregation, but they slurred and muttered, and even when you read them in black and white, they blurred together until you didn’t know how to pronounce them.  You just opened your mouth and let the sounds come out, blending with other voices, muffled voices that rose in a cloud to the crucifix. 

            You left as soon as you could, and then only returned on weekend visits to your parents when they would press you again between them.  Your thighs would touch theirs and your heads would line up, and you would listen, trying to discern your voice from your parents’, your parents’ from anybody else’s.  Until you stopped going home on Sundays.

            On the first Sunday in March, you walked into the new church, carrying a pink postcard.  You were surprised at the number of people, the crowd as they walked slowly through the doors, looking around, talking softly.  The church was held in a high school, in an auditorium, and you smiled as you remembered chorus concerts on a stage, forgotten, then blurted lines during the freshman play.  There were doughnuts and coffee, and you smiled again, thinking how you always considered the consumption of sugar and caffeine a fun sin.  Choosing an aisle seat, you ate a chocolate doughnut and sipped hot coffee.

            When the music started, you stood with the others.  The music was light and upbeat, and you were startled when people joined in, apparently recognizing the melody.  The words were displayed on a large overhead screen, and you followed along, and suddenly found yourself singing as well.  You wondered where that came from, at how easily the words worked their way from your eyes into your throat, and back out again in a voice you hadn’t heard for a long time.

            And then you sat down, and the minister began to speak.  He was talking about unconditional love, and you half-listened, looking around at the other people, their faces upraised and rapt.

            Rapt, you thought.  This is what rapt means.

            And then the minister said that maybe your father hadn’t been the best.  Maybe your mother sometimes turned away.  And you sat straight up in your chair.

            You remembered words.  Endless sentences that began with You always or You never.  Questions about Why can’t you ever.  And Don’t you ever think.  Scowled words, harsh voices, lowered eyebrows.

            And you began to cry.  Quietly.  Tears sliding over the curves of your face to land with soft pats on your shirt.  Behind you, someone leaned forward and wrapped her arms around your shoulders.  You pressed back against her, and raised your face to the ceiling, letting the tears fall faster, feeling the arms of the stranger rock you, and hearing the minister speak and speak and speak.

            When you got home, you gathered all your postcards into a pile and held them to your chest.  Then you spread them throughout the apartment, lavender in your bathroom, green in the hallway, pink and yellow in the kitchen, a full bouquet in the living room.  Spring was everywhere, and everywhere you looked, you could see the warmth.  And you looked, that day and the next, and for many days after, at the spots of color and you were rapt.

            Real Life.

            The day of your baptism, you traveled to another church, a church established outside of a high school, with your minister.  Together, you stepped into a small pool of water.  It was cold and you shivered, but the minister steadied you with a warm hand on your shoulder.  You felt the water seeping into your clothes.

            The minister talked to you quietly, saying he appreciated the time you took to make your decision, and he rejoiced with you in that decision now.  He read some passages, and then asked you if you believed.  If you accepted.

            Yes, you said.

            Cupping your hands over your nose and mouth, the minister bent you backwards into the pool.  The water lapped by your eyes, and then you felt it close over your head.  Everything became a shimmering green and white and you held your breath and listened to the water rush by your ears, press against your body.  Noise was gone, everything was gone, there was only the green and white and the whisper of the water.  It lasted for long moments.  Then you felt the minister’s arm tense around you, and he drew you up, breaking through the water, and you gasped and brought warm air into your lungs.  And you felt the warmth spread, flow through your body like blood.

            You stood there, and you felt wet.  Streams rolled down your face, your shoulders, your chest, over your hips and down your legs into the pool.  You were shiny wet.  You were all new.  The minister applauded.

            Hugging yourself, you smiled.           

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

Throughout my life, I can’t say that I’ve gotten along very well with churches. I don’t know that I can say that I’ve gotten along with God or with the Universe or with a Higher Power either, as I’ve never been quite sure who or what that is. Basically, I see myself as a seeker – someone who believes there’s something, but isn’t quite sure of who or what or what the purpose is.

I was raised Catholic. I refused to be confirmed. When I married for the first time, my husband was Catholic too, and he insisted we go to the same church as his parents, and then we had to show up for mass because his mother took attendance. After my kids’ First Communions, I flat-out quit. By then, I was working a job six days a week; Sunday was my day off. I was not going to wake up early. It wasn’t the only reason I walked away from the Catholic church. But it was one I could say out loud.

In 1997, postcards showed up in my mailbox, promoting a church that was starting up nearby, a church that claimed to deal with “real life”. At first, I threw the postcards away, but as they kept coming, I became intrigued. I went to the church’s opening…and then I attended for the next two years. The postcards and my experience caused me to write my short story, Shiny Wet, which appeared first in Standard, and then in Bellowing Ark. I stayed with the church through my separation and divorce. Michael began to attend with me. When we decided to get married, we asked the pastor to perform the ceremony. We were told no, because my reason for leaving my first husband wasn’t adultery. I walked out of church that day, stunned, and I never went back.

Then came another church where I thought we’d found a home. Until they wanted to move baby Olivia into the 1 – 3 year old room when she reached her first birthday. It was already clear that Olivia wasn’t following the usual path and I protested, saying she wasn’t ready, but they refused to see her – they only saw her age. Again, I walked out, and again, I never looked back.

Since then, no church. And of course, there’s been these last two years. My assault the day after the 2016 election. Olivia’s bullying. Michael’s job loss. And job loss. And job loss. And my breast cancer. Lots of anger. Lots of sadness.

And yet so much support and encouragement and community! As I fought with anger, I also grappled with faith. Not losing it – but finding it, much to my surprise. The assault led me to write Today’s Moment, which put a system in place that would ultimately help me through the worst two years of my life. Yes, I had breast cancer. But I also survived it. At least, so far.

As Christmas approached, I began feeling an odd pull. I hate Christmas. But I wanted to put up a tree and get out ornaments we hadn’t seen in years. So I did. While shopping for the tree, I was drawn to nativity sets. I went back later and bought a very simple one – just the holy family and a donkey. And then, in dreams, I saw a Christmas Eve church service.

The postcard church – the one who wouldn’t marry me and Michael – well, that same pastor reached out to me via Facebook when my breast cancer diagnosis came out. His wife, he said, dealt with breast cancer too. And he offered their support and encouragement. At the time, I acknowledged it, but refused. Remember, lots of anger. Lots of sadness.

But still, that odd pull.

In one of my classes a few weeks before Christmas, I talked about being rejected for the wedding ceremony, and how that same pastor reached out to me years later. One of my students said, “Even pastors make mistakes, Kathie. Maybe he knows it.”

I thought about that for a while. And then I reached out to him, asking when the church’s Christmas Eve service would be, and if he’d be the one officiating. On Christmas Eve, I entered a church for the first time in 16 years.

Why? That odd pull. I felt the need to say thank you. I wanted to push away the insurmountable anger over what happened to say thank you for what didn’t happen. Thank you for still being alive. Just like I felt the need to publicly write the Today’s Moments, I felt the need to formally say thank you. In a church.

Olivia came with me. When we sat down, there was a young boy to my left, sitting between me and his mother. From his behavior, it didn’t take me long to recognize the hallmarks of autism. Partway into the service, we were encouraged to look to the person we came with and wish them a Merry Christmas. I turned to Olivia, but then I felt a tug on my left sleeve. This young boy looked directly at me, right at me, level and straightforward, with the most glorious gray-green eyes. His mother was trying to get his attention, but he looked right at me and he said, “I’m happy you’re here.”

I held his gaze as steady as my teary eyes could and I said, “And I’m happy you’re here. Merry Christmas.”

Later, when we all lit candles to sing Silent Night, he insisted I light my candle from his. As I sang, I looked around the church at all the fiery flickering light. Then I looked at my own candle and I did what I came there to do.

I said thank you. In a church.

That little boy was happy I was there. And I was happy too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.    

(By the way – tomorrow there will be a bonus Moment – I will post the short story, Shiny Wet, that I mentioned in this essay. Watch for it.)   

This is a post from last year, when I was still doing Today’s Moment of Happiness Despite The News. This is one of my favorites, from December 9, 2017. You can find this one in the book. 

Merry Christmas, everyone. 

12/9/17 And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Christmas shopping today. Ugh. Christmas shopping does not help me to feel any better about Christmas, really. Maybe if I had the benefit of the mall all to myself, it would help. I don’t do well in crowds, especially noisy rowdy crowds. But I don’t like to do all my shopping online either. I like to support local businesses. So I braced myself, girded my loins, and went out.

It took me a half an hour to find a parking spot. A half an hour. That really didn’t start the afternoon well.

Much, much, much later, I stood in line at the Starbucks kiosk. I needed my grande cinnamon dolce latte, with only two pumps, and I needed it right that minute. There were already trips out to the car to drop things off. Things were scratched off on my lists. Michael and Olivia were off doing their own shopping. There was just a little more for me to do. I was tired. I was grumpy. My back hurt. And I was really, really, really sick of the Christmas music that was playing everywhere. If I heard “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree” one more time, I was going to have to throw a rock at a Christmas tree. And maybe Santa.

And then, in the slow line at Starbucks, I heard a little voice.

The song playing at the time was Band Aid 30’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” The little voice singing along was very young and I turned to trace it. Behind me, there was a little girl, about four years old, hanging on to her mother’s coat and swaying with the music. She wasn’t paying attention to anyone, she was just singing. She wasn’t singing to perform; she wasn’t aware of being watched or listened to. She just SANG. And she knew the words! I wondered at a little one who knew this song from 2014.

Santa was in his throne just across the aisle, but she wasn’t looking at Santa. She wasn’t looking at all the lights and decorations. She didn’t pay a bit of attention to the noise. It was just not there for her. She was blissed out on the music. It was a glorious bubble around her. She swayed and she sang.

So I joined her. Just as the song shifted into its lyric of Feed the world (let them know it’s Christmas time again), Heal the world (let them know it’s Christmas time again). She looked up at me and she beamed. She smiled like she sang. All heart.

So did I.

When we finished the song, she giggled and began to twirl. I nodded at her mother, who looked as tired as I felt before the song, and I said, “You have a beautiful daughter. Merry Christmas.”

Then I covered the tab for her latte and the little singer’s juice box.

Hope and joy can be found in the strangest places. In a Starbucks line, where an impossibly young little girl sings earnestly about feeding and healing the world.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.           

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

You would think that I’ve been writng these things long enough now that having a shower curtain show up as a moment of happiness wouldn’t surprise me. But it does.

In this part of Wisconsin, we really didn’t have fall this year. We had summer, sort of, and then summer wobbled and the temperature dropped overnight and we had a windstorm that blew all the leaves off the trees and bam. We’re in winter. Not only are we in winter, but we’ve had next to no sun. It’s not terribly frigid, there haven’t been any windchill warnings yet, and there’s no snow right now, but it’s still cold and it’s damp. My dog shivers whenever we go out for her to, well, you know. I shiver right along with her.

And the gray. The gray is just impossible. I’m turning lights on during the day. It feels like February. But it’s December. Someone said to me yesterday, “You’re a writer…one of those blue-sky people.” I’m not quite sure what being a writer has to do with blue skies, but I am a blue skies and sunshine person. I drive a convertible for a reason. I don’t have curtains on my floor to ceiling windows for a reason. My car that isn’t a convertible has a sun roof for a reason.

But when it’s this gray…well, none of those things help. They’re just more ways of letting the gray in. Endless gray. Everywhere.

So our shower curtain was dying. Most of the pre-punched holes that hold the liner to the hooks were ripped. It was hard to open, it was hard to close, and it looked terrible. We need an extra long curtain, so our choices aren’t many. This awful gray makes me want to do nothing more than stay at home under a blanket (autumn red or deep, deep brown), so I poked around on the internet, looking at way too many shower curtains that cost way too much, were usually too short, and were incredibly ugly.

And then I saw one. It looked…kinda pretty. It looked kinda like…fall. And I blinked at the price. $16. Really? I read the description about twenty times, trying to find what was wrong with it. But nothing seemed wrong. So…I ordered it and some new hook-things too. What do you call those hooks that go over your shower curtain rod and hold your curtain up?

In the way of things today, it all showed up within 48 hours. I brought the package upstairs, climbed on my ever-present stepstool (life at five foot two is never easy) and hung it. Then I spread it out, climbed down, put the stepstool away, and then turned back.

And gasped. Fall, my missing season, was  in full throttle in my bathroom.

The shower curtain shows a forest in autumn. The leaves are that shade of maple orange that takes the breath away. The quiet of the forest is here too…I have only to shut the door. When I turn on the light, even on a gray day, I can see sunshine. If it’s just after a shower, the air is moist and warm.

“Ooooooooooooh…” I breathed.

I don’t know how many times that day, that first day with the shower curtain, I walked to the bathroom, even though I didn’t need to, well, you know, turned on the light and just gazed. We’ve had it several days now. Even Michael said, “Wow!” when he first saw it.

But the clincher was Olivia. She never uses this bathroom unless she wants a dip in the jetted tub. She came upstairs a few nights ago, a newly purchased fall-scented candle in her hands (Yes, fall. Apples. Cinnamon. Pumpkin. Mmmm.)  I was at my desk, of course, and my office is right next to the bathroom. I heard her when Olivia turned on the light.

“Ooooooooooooh…” she breathed.

Her bath took a little longer that night. She bathed in golden fall sunlight, orange leaves, the scent of apples, the sanctity and sacredness of a forest. When she came out, she was smiling.

I don’t know who made this shower curtain, who designed it, created it, produced it. But whoever it was, bless you. I am delighted to have fall just a few steps away, whether it’s spring, summer or winter outside. Fall, even in all this gray.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.                

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

During the week, it’s a rare occurrence for my family to all sit down and eat at the same time. Our schedules are varied, our activities are everywhere. Dinner is made and left to sit on the stove or in the crockpot or in the oven and we self-serve as we trot past. Sometimes, we wave at each other.

But traditionally, on Saturday, we go out. All three of us. We choose a sit-down restaurant, we sit down and actually spend some time.

Lately, though, that’s grown difficult. Michael and Olivia are now both working in retail – Olivia part-time as she saves money for college, and Michael full-time to keep us in health insurance. We’ve been married nineteen years, and he’s always worked usual day-job hours – 9 – 4, M – F. But now, his hours are everywhere and there is no such thing as a weekend.

It’s been an adjustment. They’re often home too late to go out. I’ve been missing them. But I’ve also been missing my one night out a week. A nice meal, cooked just for me. Set gently on a table. Delivered with a smile.

This past Saturday, Olivia was working until 8:00 and Michael until 9:00. At 6:30, I found myself sitting in the parking lot of Target, contemplating going home and heating up a can of Spaghetti-Ohs.

I didn’t want to.

And I thought, Maybe I should take myself out to dinner?

I’ve read so many scenes in books of people, both women and men, going out to dinner by themselves and feeling like a spectacle. I’ve seen television shows covering this. Frasier and The New Adventures of Old Christine come to mind immediately, with Frasier and Christine each respectively sitting by themselves in nice restaurants and being treated as pitiful and lonely or as having the plague. I didn’t want to be pitiful or plague-y. I just wanted to have a nice dinner.

Hemi and I turned toward my favorite restaurant instead, Spring City Restaurant, one place that has sangria that I can still drink, despite my allergies. They also have a hot and comforting cream of broccoli soup and a hot chicken salad sandwich that is out of this world. I’d brought student manuscripts with me – I bring them wherever I go – in case I stopped for coffee somewhere. Now, I pictured myself in this quiet, softly lit restaurant, where they know my name, and I suddenly became hungry for more than food.

There is a waiter named Raoul. How can you not love a waiter named Raoul? Our usual table by the fireplace was taken, but he seated me close by. Interestingly, he didn’t ask where my family was. He just ran to fetch my sangria. Then he took my order and, other than delivering my meal, he let me be.

I sat there, in that restaurant, and I didn’t feel stared-at. I was warm and it was familiar. So much hasn’t felt familiar lately. I studied the flames in the fireplace. Music played, a mix of Christmas and popular, and I hummed along. I read my pages, drank my sangria, ate my piping hot food – a meal that wasn’t reheated in the microwave.

Granted, there wasn’t the thrum of conversation and laughter. There weren’t the two I was missing and there wasn’t the family time I craved. But I could sit there, be taken care of, gently, and think of them. Project myself to each place where they were, and where I would be picking them up later. Picture our house that night, with voices in it, the way it should be. I knew that in the late hours, there would be a moment when Michael and I would be in our side-by-side recliners and he would have one hand on my arm and Olivia would come in and sit on the arm of my recliner and tuck herself under my blanket and for that moment, we would all be there again.

Olivia is going to college next year. I don’t know how long these moments will still be in my life.

But that dinner, sitting there alone in the familiar, a quiet Raoul making sure I had almost everything I needed, I thought of those two people and I wasn’t alone. This was a bridge-dinner – something that comforted me and led me always back home and to them.

Times and lives change. We find ways of making it work. Even eating alone at a restaurant while holding a silent conversation in our heads with those that aren’t there.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

From 3:30 yesterday afternoon to about noon today, I was pretty much nonstop humming, “Oh, what a circus, oh, what a show,” from Evita. I wasn’t dealing with Argentina, though. I was dealing with AT&T.

We thought we’d shave a few dollars from our budget by getting rid of our home phone landline, which also carried our wifi, and instead add wifi onto my studio’s phone (AllWriters’ Workplace  & Workshop). So I braced myself for a phone marathon and called AT&T to arrange it. It only took an hour, which isn’t bad by their standards. The day to add the internet was yesterday, somewhere between 11:00 and 1:00. I taught a class at one, so of course, that’s when they showed up. I had my son here as a back-up plan.

I came up after class and no one was home. I looked in my office and, sure enough, there was a router. All systems were go, until my son called. “Mom,” he said, “why did you have them disconnect your phone?”

WHAT?

I looked at my phone, which blinked the message, NO LINE. The wifi was running. The phone was not. The AllWriters’ phone was dead. My business depends on the phone.

In a panic, I called the technician – I had his number from when he called to tell me he was on the way. I got his voicemail, and I know I left a pretty hysterical message. “This is a business! I need my phone! I have a client calling in an hour! Why did you disconnect my phone! I’ve had it for 14 years!”

Then I went into the quagmire that is AT&T. I bounced from operator to operator, trying to explain what happened. No one understood. One operator said, “I called that number and it rang through to voicemail.”

“It didn’t ring HERE,” I said. “The phone says there’s no line. There’s no line!”

Eventually, they told me they could have another technician out to fix the problem…on December 26^th. 21 days away. I don’t usually yell on the phone. But it was round about then that I lost it. I stood up, raised my fist in the air and roared, “That is UNACCEPTABLE! This is a BUSINESS!”

They said they’d expedite it.

In the meantime, I didn’t notice that the original technician left me a message to call him. His name was Jason. When I got to him, he apologized profusely, said he thought it was odd that I was disconnecting my phone, but that was in his orders. “I’ve called my manager,” he said. “We’re going to fix this. His name is Matt. We’ll call you tonight and have someone out tomorrow. Hold on a sec…I’m making fettuccini alfredo and I have to stir it.”

Say what? He was talking to me from his home – from his kitchen.

I told him that my husband made home-made baked macaroni and cheese the night before. We chatted about food and family. By the time we hung up, my heart rate was back down to normal. I no longer had a fist.

AT&T called and said they’d expedited me all the way to the 11^th. “I’ve already been told someone will be here tomorrow,” I said. “The 11^th is unacceptable.” They said they had no record of that and that they’d call me the next afternoon, “to see if someone actually shows up.”

At 9:00 that night, my best friend Jason called me back. “I just talked to Matt,” he said. “I’m off tomorrow, so he’s sending Dustin. Dustin is the best. He’ll be there by ten.”

I slept the sleep of the well-cared for.

At ten this morning, Dustin showed up. In 20 minutes, he’d fixed the problem. He smiled while he did so.

At noon, I had a phone call. “This is Dave,” a nice male voice said. “I’m a technician from AT&T. I have a service ticket on your phone line…I’m on my way to fix it now.”

“Oh,” I said. “Someone was already here.”

We straightened it out. We chatted about his day. We chatted about mine. He thanked me for saving him a trip. I thanked him for being one of four men, Jason, Dustin, unseen Matt, nice voice Dave, who went out of their way to make sure my business was safe and sound, and by (phone) extension, so was I.

AT&T just sent me another email, telling me I’m set for my service appointment on the 11^th. I’m not going to cancel it. Maybe it will be one of my new best friends. We can have coffee.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

My dog is scared of the Christmas tree. A bird had its feet frozen in ice in a parking lot. And I have an appointment with my medical oncologist tomorrow.

Yes, these things are all connected.

For the first time in years, I decided to try and like Christmas. I bought a tree, a skinny six-footer, that fit between my piano and the wall. It’s a lovely color – Michael calls it champagne. I call it rose gold. We both call it different and unique. We pulled out family ornaments that have been in my off-site storeroom for at least three years now, exclaimed over them, and created a tree that stops my heart when I look at it.

It stopped my dog Ursula’s heart too. In fear. Ursula has only been with us since March. She is a rescue from Alabama. We don’t know much about her, except that she is afraid. Of everything. The icemaker in the fridge, the microwave, the television, storms, flapping flags, flying ducks, buses…and apparently, Christmas trees. My vision of a smiling new dog under the sparkling new tree evaporated. We’ve had a week of treeness now, and she’s improved some. She will stay in the same room. But she won’t go near. She spooks when the tree goes from dark to light, and light to dark.

This morning, I took her out to do her business. The city parking lot next to our condo is coated in ice that comes from water out of a mystery pipe attached to a building that is for sale. I’ve called “the city” about it. “The city” said, “Uh-huh.” That is our city’s way of dealing with things, at least until someone falls and gets hurt. As Ursula and I skated to the little patch of grass between our condos and Walgreens, I noticed a bird standing on the ice. The bird saw us too, flapped its wings to flee, and didn’t go anywhere. That’s when I realized that the ice was up to the bird’s twig-like ankles. He somehow got frozen there.

Ursula is scared of Christmas trees. Even sparkly unique ones. I am scared of birds. Even birds in trouble.

Job finished, I brought Ursy back into the house. Then I ran warm water into a coffee cup. I told myself I could pour the water over the ice, it would melt, the bird would fly away. AWAY. Not in my hair. Not in my face. Oh, so scared.

Back outside, I squatted behind the bird. Behind it, so that it would fly AWAY from me when it was freed. I poured the water, my arm as outstretched as it could get. The ice melted, the twig feet appeared, and…the bird just stood there.

“Yo,” I said. “Fly.”

It didn’t. And I wondered if it even knew it was out of the ice. Maybe there was no feeling in its feet. I looked at my gloved hands.

Oh, no. Not again.

I put one hand around the bird’s body. With my other hand, I cupped his feet. And I waited for my warmth to warm him. I swear I felt that bird’s body relax. “It’s okay,” I said. Then I stood up, opened my hands slowly, and he flew away. AWAY.

There was nothing to be afraid of. And I was able to help.

Going upstairs, I patted Ursula and said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. But you’ll figure it out.” She rested her big concrete head in my lap.

Tomorrow, I have an appointment with the medical oncologist. It’s a routine check-in. Blood will be drawn. There will be an examination. We will talk. And I am terrified. There is actually something called cancerchondria, where cancer patients, even cured ones, are afraid at every bump, bang and pain, and also at every appointment. I have it bad.

I’m scared of birds. But I picked that bird, that fear, up and I let it go.

I came upstairs and I told Ursula to let it go.

I have an appointment tomorrow. Bye, bye, birdie.

I helped that bird. But that bird helped me.

And yes, that (obviously) helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Whenever Grandbaby Maya Mae visits, she never just walks into the room. She makes an ENTRANCE.

A few days ago, when Maya Mae arrived, before she even took off her winter jacket, hat and mittens, she marched – MARCHED – over to me and held out a sparkly crown. “Gamma Kaffee,” she announced imperiously, “I am going to be a pwincess for the west of my WIFE.” She tore off her winter stuff, plunked the crown on her long-haired head, and sat with a huff onto my couch. She crossed her arms, her eyebrows V’d in, and there she was, ready to rule.

Yes, ma’am, Maya Mae, ma’am.

I’ve read a lot lately about little girls and princesses and forced expectations of society. This seems to be a never-ending discussion. In general, it seems that if a little girl wants to be a princess, it’s because she’s being force-fed girlishness from television and movies and toy manufacturers and so on. I admit, I thought about this and looked at the Maya Mae version of princess on my couch and I laughed.

Maya Mae wants to be a princess for the rest of her WIFE. This child on my couch did not recline in a gown, her hair done, her fingers manicured, waiting for a prince to come by and kiss her and make her Somebody. This princess was Somebody already. And she was a Somebody under her own power.

When I read those articles, I felt a bit guilty. Was I supposed to tell Maya that she isn’t supposed to want to be a princess? In this time (and all the previous times) of telling girls they can be whatever they want to be, are we supposed to add, “But don’t want to be THAT.” Is part of being whatever you want to be also NOT being what we’ve deemed unacceptable? Frankly, I think the princess nay-sayers aren’t seeing what today’s little girl means when she says she wants to be a princess. Pwincess. Princess.

She wants to be the BOSS. To hell with the prince. Just give her a crown, dammit, and let’er rip.

Maya has always been surrounded with other encouragements. Yes, she watches princesses on television, but she also watches shows about tools and building things and creating inventions and veterinarians and music and imagination. She has an aunt who is about to earn her PhD in math, and that aunt gives Maya all things STEM. She has a grandma (guess who?) who supplies her with books and art supplies and who cheered and clapped when Maya showed her new name-writing expertise. Maya appeared in a video the other day, filmed by another grandma, as Maya worked on making an apple pie and narrated how to do so, pretending to be on her own YouTube channel.

And through all of it, building, writing, drawing, baking, Maya Mae wears a crown. Because she wants to be a pwincess for the west of her WIFE. Princess. Pwincess.

As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer. As soon as I learned how to write my letters, I was off, writing stories. I wrote my first novel in the fifth grade. Started submitting when I was twelve, published for the first time when I was fifteen. And through all of it, I was told I couldn’t do it. I was told I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t good enough. Then I was told it had to remain a hobby because my work was worthless.

“What do you think, that you can write the Great American Novel?”

Yes. Yes, I did. I’ve sat on a couch with my arms crossed too.

Grandbaby Maya Mae smiled at me, a sparkly crown on her head, her arms crossed, her eyebrows V’d, her stuffed kitten named Hightop Junior beside her. Every princess needs a sidekick, donchaknow. To me, her inherent royalty just glowed. What a future she has. She can be whatever she chooses to be. Pwincess. Princess. Pwincess.

Nobody is going to tell this child what she can’t do.

“Maya Mae,” I said, “you just go ahead and be a pwincess for the west of your WIFE.”

She gave a world-weary sigh. “Gamma Kaffee,” she said, “I’m not going to be a pwincess for the west of my wife. I’m going to be a PWINCESS for the WEST of my WIFE.”

I corrected myself. “A PRINCESS for the REST of your LIFE.” I heard her.

She beamed. I bowed.

All hail, Princess Maya Mae.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

A ludicrous love story. Between a woman and her car.

Well, maybe not so ludicrous.

I was in my late twenties when I first noticed the Chrysler 300. I was at a stoplight and I thought, Wow…look at that beast. I’ve never been attracted to sporty cars. I like classy, sophisticated powerful lines. I remember hesitating when the stoplight turned green so that lovely car could pull ahead and I could identify it. A Chrysler 300. Every time I saw a 300 from that point on…I stopped and dreamed.

And the Chrysler 300 was a dream. A car I thought I could never have. A car not for the likes of me. I would never be that sort of person.

Six years ago, when I had to trade in my pick-up, I looked into Chrysler 300s on a whim. And lo and behold…it didn’t have to be a dream anymore.

I investigated two. One was newer, but didn’t have much in the way of bells and whistles. The other, though already six years old, had low mileage, and did everything but make coffee for me. And it was a Chrysler 300C Hemi – the Hemi engine is a car-lover’s holy grail. I test-drove the Hemi first. I never got into the other car. Hemi solidified around me like the bodyguard he grew to be. Heated memory seats that roll back to let me in and out in comfort, but then when I’m seated, remember to put me exactly where I like to be. Automatic everything. He kept me at a steady 78 degrees – no need to wear a winter jacket. And that Hemi engine that told everyone to get the hell out of my way.

I fell so hard in love. And I suddenly owned the car I could never have. Somehow, that allowed me to start believing that I was worth something. That I was providing something for my students that they needed. That I was writing things that people wanted to read. I can’t explain why it happened that way – why a Chrysler 300C Hemi would give me the pat on the back I could recognize and not rebuff. But Hemi did. When I was in that car, I was invincible.

Until I wasn’t. During my breast cancer, Hemi became my comfort zone. When I couldn’t sleep and it was the middle of the night and I was scared or mad or sad or absolutely convinced I was going to die, I quietly slid out of bed and went for a drive. Hemi’s seat would close around me, his engine would come to life, and my lights would turn on for me. Those lights would split through the darkness like the darkness that was within me. Oh, that bodyguard car. We could drive for miles and I could scream and cry and no one else had to hear but me and my car. I came home feeling invincible again. Until the next time. And there were many times.

On the night of October 27, we were coming home from a family wedding when a car three up from me hit a deer. The car behind him bounced off the first, and the SUV in front of me swung into the left lane. When Hemi’s headlights let me know there was a deer in the road, I had no time and no choice but to go over it. Hemi’s underside was torn apart and stuffed full of deer.

I thought I lost my beast. My bodyguard. My comfort zone. Hemi is now 12 years old and I didn’t think the insurance company would believe he was worth saving. Just like I used to believe I wasn’t worth saving.

At one point, the insurance adjuster said to me, “I don’t understand how you weren’t airborne.”

I understood. It was Hemi. He’s my bodyguard.

Hemi’s underside was so packed full of deer, he had to be put up on a lift and powerwashed before the damage could even be seen. It took three weeks before I knew the outcome. And three weeks before I saw him again.

Hemi came home yesterday. When I walked into the body shop, they had him parked under all the lights. He glowed. And I promptly made an absolute fool of myself and burst into tears.

I can’t explain my love for this car. But we all find comfort where we find comfort. When I think of all those who helped me get through this breast cancer period, I have to include my car. My bodyguard who saved me again on October 27 by refusing to leave the road when he plowed over a deer.

Welcome home, Hemi.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.