Author: Kathie

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.

 

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

We had an election on Tuesday. It was a very different experience this time around. The political ads leading up to it were the same – vitriolic, mud-slinging, saying more about what the opponent would do wrong as opposed to what the candidate would do right. But the atmosphere was different. Not only was there a feeling of excitement and change, but there was an incredible uplift in commitment, responsibility, and belief that voices should be raised and heard.

People voted!

For the first time in my memory, I had trouble finding a parking spot at my polling place. For the first time, I had to stand in line, and the room I was going into was set up in corrals, putting us in the correct line for our ward. For the first time, I had to wait, to receive my ballot, stand in line again for an open booth, AND stand in line to insert my ballot into the machine.

I don’t know about other places, but in my polling place, people were patient. We smiled at each other. There wasn’t any snarling, no glaring at what we were wearing or weren’t wearing (at the presidential election in 2016, I wore a Hillary shirt – before I left for the parking lot, I zipped up my jacket because of the glares and whispered comments I received).

This was probably the most positive voting experience I’ve ever had. And there was one more thing that made this particularly special – my newly 18-year old daughter, Olivia, was voting.

I remember the first time I voted. I was 18 and a freshman at the University of Wisconsin – Madison. My polling place was in an old church. I walked into my booth and yanked on a creaking handle that snapped a blue curtain shut behind me, leaving only my sneakers and the ragged ends of my jeans available for view. The booth was filled with rows of levers that I had to pull to say who I was voting for. I gazed wonderingly at these for a bit – I’d never seen such a thing. And then I saw the names. I only recognized a few. I really had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I only had the vague sense that this was something that I should be doing, now that I was 18 years old. So I pulled levers. I thought it was fun. And then I went back to my room. I don’t think I even paid attention to the results that night.

Hoo boy. Things have changed.

Now, I have an 18-year old. She’s my fourth 18-year old, actually. When the shootings occurred in Florida last February and so many teenagers stood up and said, “Get ready. We’re voting in the next election,” she took notice. She told me she couldn’t wait.

A month or so before the election, she told me she was worried. “What if I vote for the wrong person?”

So we talked about that. Olivia decided to ignore the political ads on television and to ignore the chatter going on around her at school. Instead, she went to the website of each and every person running. She read what they said. She weighed and measured. She thought and considered. And when she followed us into the polling place on Tuesday, she was ready.

Now remember – this is the child who wasn’t ever supposed to be able to speak. She was nonverbal until she was three years old.

As I waited for an available booth, I watched as my daughter stepped forward, on her own. She gave the appropriate information, handed over her ID, signed her name, took her ballot. She smiled the whole time.

I waited some more by the exit, watching her at the booth as she stood with one toe popped in her black sneakers, her back curved as she studied the ballot, making sure she read everything carefully. Then over to the ballot-eating machine, and she fetched her sticker, and she walked to me, beaming the whole way.

She smiled out to the car with that sense of having done something she was supposed to do, just as I did, way back in 1978. But she also smiled with the knowledge that it was her right to raise her voice, that it was a gift. She also smiled because she knew her decisions were knowledge-based, brain-based, heart-based. She researched, she deliberated, she decided.

I realized then what I was feeling, on this election day, that made it so very different.

Hope. I didn’t just raise my voice; my hope rose through the roof.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Over the weekend, I made an appearance at the Edgerton Sterling North Film & Book Festival. On Friday night, there was a very nice dinner and all of the presenting authors had to get up and say something. So I did.

The last time I was at this particular festival was 6 years ago. At the time, Olivia was 12 years old. She was in 6^th grade and she’d just written her first story – in the horror genre. She was so proud of it. The day she finished it, I was out somewhere, and she called me on the phone, asking me to please hurry home because she couldn’t wait for me to see it.

Yes, it was THAT important. And you know what? It was GOOD.

I didn’t know that she decided to bring the story to school. She showed her English teacher. Without calling us or telling Olivia, her teacher showed the Special Ed lead. Who showed the principal. Who showed it to the school psychologist. Who hauled Olivia into his office, without her aide, without anyone, and still without calling us.

Olivia was grilled. Without an aide to help her understand what was going on and what she was being asked. The psychologist made her feel as if she’d done something wrong, something horrible, he made her feel, she said, “evil”. She was told that only mentally ill people wrote this sort of thing and that she should stop writing it immediately.

Olivia’s father writes mystery and horror. And I suppose the psychologist had never heard of, say, Stephen King. And to further the irony – the school was all reading Edgar Allen Poe, who was being read by the entire city for the Big Read.

That was when I was called. Before I even went to pick up my crumpled daughter, slumping her “evil” shoulders and feeling like she should never write again, I went ballistic and demanded a meeting with all parties concerned, on the next day. THE next day. No other options.

The psychologist did not show to the meeting, though he received quite the email from my husband. Olivia was given an apology, but she was told she could not show her stories to her classmates. She was devastated.

That weekend, I appeared at the Edgerton festival and when I had to speak at the dinner, I told them what happened to my daughter, who was sitting right at my table. “Please,” I said, “at some point this weekend, everyone, talk to my daughter and say, ‘Please just don’t give up. Don’t give up.’”

And they did. The response was incredible. The story spread and even visitors to the festival who weren’t at that dinner found my daughter and spoke with her.

At the dinner this past Friday, I told them the rest of the story. “Olivia is here,” I said. “6 years later. She’s 18. She’s a senior. She’s been accepted at every college she applied to. She is an accomplished artist and an accomplished musician. And she’s working on the second draft of her novel. She didn’t give up. Thank you for helping me to raise my daughter’s voice. I will be forever grateful to this festival.”

Oh, amazing what people can do when they come together.

The next day, after my presentation of Today’s Moment, I went to the table where I was to sign books. A woman came up to me. Olivia was standing by my side. “I heard you speak last night,” the woman said. “You’ve been through a lot. You’ve raised an incredible daughter.” Olivia giggled and said thank you. Then the woman turned back to me. “And you’ve been through a lot in the last year too.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a little plaster statue of an angel. “This is the angel of perseverance,” she said. “I’ve had her for a long time. But I want you to have her now.” She smiled and walked away.

I was speechless, holding that little angel.

That night, driving home, a car three up from me on the freeway hit a deer. The car behind him bounced off. The SUV in front of me swerved into the next lane. I couldn’t see anything, because of the SUV, but when he cleared my field of vision, there was the deer, stretched out right in front of me. I couldn’t go to the right or the left. All I could do was go over. In my beloved Hemi, my 2006 Chrysler 300C Hemi. Oh, the bump. Oh, the bang. When I spoke to the insurance adjuster today, he said he’s amazed I didn’t become airborne.

But you know what? None of my tires blew. My car kept moving smoothly, to the point where we all said, “Is it okay?” But then we heard things falling off the bottom of my car and he began to smoke. I pulled Hemi over, shut him off, and we all stepped away.

But we’re all alive. We’re all in one piece. Except possibly my car. I love my car. Anyone who has read Today’s Moment knows Hemi.

But we’re okay. Whether it was the angel tucked in my suitcase or the brute of a car wrapped around me, I don’t know. But we weren’t airborne. I didn’t lose control. Hemi and I worked together.

It’s amazing, what people – and cars – can do when they come together. Angels help too.

Wherever you are, woman who gave me the angel, thank you. And if there is an angel of cars, please watch over my Hemi. I honestly don’t know if I can handle another loss. But I do have the angel of perseverance by my side. Maybe that’s what she’s for.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

One of the nice things about doing these moments only once a week is there’s time to allow a moment to develop. Sometimes, different things happen over days and then they all combine into a moment of realization. That was this week. This will be a bit rambly.  I hope it makes sense.

This afternoon, I read from Hilma Wolitzer’s novel, An Available Man, where a character said, “I believe in God, but I just don’t like him very much right now.” I understood that. Most of us probably do.

Last Thursday, the book Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News debuted at a Southeast Wisconsin Special event. During the interview on stage, I was asked to explain what I said about my own spirituality on such-and-such a date. So I talked about how I consider myself a seeker, someone who knows there’s something out there, but just doesn’t know what, and keeps looking and exploring.

At that moment, and then again today, I thought of my own novel, Rise From The River. This will sound weird, but I learned more about faith from my own character, Doris, than I ever have from anybody (and yes, I am aware that I created her). Doris, a devoutly Catholic woman, runs to the church to find answers as to why her neighbor was raped, and why it had to occur in front of a 4-year old child. “Where was God?” she asks the priest. The priest answers, “They’re alive, aren’t they? Rainey wasn’t murdered? And the little girl…the rapist didn’t touch her? God was there, Doris. What happened is just unthinkable. But maybe what didn’t happen is even more unthinkable. Beyond it. God was there.”

I distinctly remember writing those words and then my hands falling still and I slumped back in my chair and thought, Where the hell did that come from? From me?

Then at the launch, I read a piece from Today’s Moment that ended with, “They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And I’m still standing, aren’t I.”

Breast cancer was unthinkable. But maybe what didn’t happen was even more unthinkable.

And then I had a poem accepted yesterday. The first poem I wrote on the breast cancer topic. The title? What Doesn’t Kill You.

Let’s keep going. Yesterday, I was being interviewed on a morning television talk show. One of the hosts asked me, “Are you an optimist?” I immediately and gut-level replied, “No!” Both hosts were noticeably taken aback. I backpedaled and said, “Or at least…I wasn’t…”

And then I thought about that. I’ve always called myself a natural skeptic. Years ago, when I was in grad school, I was sitting in a meeting with my new adviser and his students. One woman noted that it was interesting that we were all redheads. “Even the one who always looks so skeptical,” she said. She was looking at me. “Huh?” I said. “You always look skeptical. No matter if you’re in workshop or lecture. Always.” So apparently, I wore my skepticism like other women wear make-up.

But now, I was being asked if I was an optimist, and in a way that it was clear I was supposed to answer yes. I said no. But…

A few days ago, a review of Today’s Moment appeared. It said, “Despite the difficult times in life, the book radiated pure joy.”

Last Wednesday, when I was Featured Poet in a poetry series, I read this line from one of my very own poems: “…And an underlying vein of joy that I rarely admit to.”

Good grief. Am I an optimist?

Earlier this week, I said to someone, “I feel like I was supposed to learn something from the breast cancer. I can feel it. But I’m not sure what it is.”

Tonight, I opened up an online fortune cookie that I get every day for fun. It said:

It is never really a bad thing to have your eyes opened or to learn. Just be sure that you remember that there are always bright spots and room to grow.

And I laughed out loud because I was just walloped upside the head with the obvious. And the infusion of joy I felt left me trembling.

What doesn’t kill you…I’m still standing…Am I an optimist?

I had something to learn. It was in me all along.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Last night, I was Featured Poet at a poetry and open mic series in a lovely coffee shop in the middle of a small village in Wisconsin. A small village, yes, but a great one that supports a poet laureate, and their current poet laureate happens to be one of my students. Who didn’t think he was a poet.

I told him differently. Multiple individual publications, three poetry books and one poet laureate-ship later…

So I was Featured Poet. As I’m primarily known and asked to appear as a fiction writer, this was a lot of fun. It gave me a chance to share work that many readers aren’t aware of. Because I knew the crowd was likely to be small, I threw in poetry of every type. Formal poetry (haiku, villanelle, prose poem), informal poetry, long poetry, short poetry, mentions of penises and asses and breasts and sex and food and love and everything life has to offer. I had a ball. And I think I further proved that this idea of writers needing to “brand” themselves is ridiculous. The only thing brandy about me is what I like to drink on cold winter nights. You never know what’s going to fall out of my mouth or onto my page. That’s how I roll. And that’s how writers should roll, in full possession of the creative process.

I also used this presentation as an opportunity to carefully slide out poetry from my newest chapbook, When You Finally Said No, which will be released by Finishing Line Press in February. Carefully, because I know this will be a difficult collection for some. The title should give you some idea as to what it covers. It follows a story – my story. And it follows it through some hard situations.

So for me, this was a chance to read from this book, out loud, in a crowd mixed with people I knew and some I didn’t. It gave me the chance to fight through the fear of doing so, to reassure myself that it will be all right, I can do this, and also to watch and listen to reactions.

There was an open mic after I was done. The last person to read was a young woman who helped to organize the event. Right before she read her third poem, she said, “I’m going to read a poem that I wasn’t planning on reading tonight. But because of what Kathie had the courage to read, I’m going to read mine too.”

And she did. Boy, did she. Incredible. BAM.

And just like that, my poetry chapbook did just what I wanted it to do, even before it was released. It reached someone. It touched someone. It gave someone courage. It helped her to raise her voice and shout her truth and get it all out in the open. No more shadows. No more hiding. And with that…no more burden.

Writers don’t often get to see their words in action. We write and we put it out there, but unless we stumble across someone reading our stuff, we don’t get to see what we’ve accomplished. We don’t get to see the reach.

I saw the reach last night. And it made every bit of hard work and fear and pain of putting that chapbook together worth it. More than worth it. And it can only go up from here. Just wait until it comes out.

Just wait.

I’m going to hold this moment tight to me as I walk on stage tonight to launch Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News; A Year Of Spontaneous Essays. I’m going to watch – and listen – for more reaches.

I’ve made a difference. Oh, man. Hallelujah. Amen. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.