Author: Kathie

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Once a week, I take a day off. I implemented this plan over a year ago, so that I could have some much-needed time off, but still maintain my class and client load. I alternate the days, so one week, it’s Monday, the next week, Tuesday, and so on. Students and clients know that every 5 weeks or so, they’re likely to have a day off.

This week, my day off was today. With the stress of the holidays and everything else hitting hard, I decided today was a day to do things for myself that I wouldn’t normally do. I am also well aware that I won’t be receiving a Christmas gift from Michael this year, or ever again, and so the gift is coming from me, to me.

I booked a warm stone massage, my favorite kind of massage. And, for the first time ever, I booked a pedicure. I thought about a manicure, but I chew on my nails. My feet are pretty safe – I can’t reach them to gnaw nervously on the nails.

Before the pandemic, I used to have warm stone massages every six weeks. I have fibromyalgia, and I’ve found the warm stone massage to be just the best for this. Other massages cause the fibro to flare up, but this one eases all the knots out. And the heat! I insist that the massage bed be turned up to its highest temperature, and the warm stones too. The heated towels they put over me are also at their hottest. I want to just melt. And today was really cold, so it was very welcome.

The pedicure was interesting. I will do it again. And it came with a bonus – the pedicurist massaged my legs and feet…and then the massage therapist did it all over again. Oh, baby.

There is something about the massage that turns my brain loose, and my brain has been working overtime since January 17^th. I worried a little bit – my emotions also tend to release during a massage, and I was afraid I’d start crying. I forewarned the therapist about this and to the reason behind it, and she said, “It’s all right. That’s what this is for. Just let go.”

Letting go is terrifying. I’ve been working hard to hold myself together, not let go.

But I also get ideas for whatever I’m writing when I’m on the massage table. One of my favorite massage stories took place after my first novel, The Home For Wayward Clocks, was released, and my short story collection, Enlarged Hearts, was soon to follow. I was working on a new novel (which years later would turn into In Grace’s Time), and so I watched as my thoughts idly moved in that direction.

But then I heard a sentence I wasn’t expecting:

“Cooley never expected to cry when her mother died.”

Cooley? Cooley??? No, no, no. Grace. I was supposed to be thinking about Grace. Cooley was one of the main characters in The Home For Wayward Clocks, and that book was over and done with. But then my mind flooded.

It was 8 years later.

James, the main character of Clocks, was dead.

Cooley was now in charge of the clock museum.

Ione, a secondary character, was in a memory care facility with “garden variety dementia”.

And Cooley’s mother now had a name. Mara Rose. Throughout Clocks, she was only Cooley’s mother, the woman who burned her child with cigarettes and was an alcoholic.

And now…and now…

“Oh, shit!” I exclaimed, my voice coming out through the doughnut pillow my face rested in.

The massage therapist’s hands flew off my back. “What?” she cried. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I groaned. “I have to go home and write a different book.”

And I did. Learning To Tell (A Life)Time came out in 2013.  Poor Grace finally followed in 2017, with several other books in between.

Today, I hoped to find a pathway into the book I’m working on. As I settled on the massage table, facedown, after admiring my newly sparkling toes, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. And sure enough, a brief idea connecting some things in the book came through.

And then faded.

For the first time with a massage, I became only conscious of what was being done. I felt the tension in each muscle, every joint, and in a weird visual in my mind, I saw that tension crack and shatter. As it did, my body, piece by piece, began to relax. I felt it go. If I was able to see my own profile, I think I would have looked like building blocks, maybe Legos, being pushed into place. Every part of my body dropped.

And yes, I soaked the pillow with tears. Mostly though, tears of relief, not sadness.

When I walked out later, with my sparkly toes, I was just mush. It was like the massage therapist pulled out a plug at the bottom of my foot, let everything drain, and then put the stopper back in.

I have absolutely no doubt that I will sleep soundly tonight. Hopefully without any disturbances.

I’ve already made an appointment for my next massage. It’s time to get what works back into the schedule.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’m very late with this today. I held off deliberately, because I knew tonight, I was going to a special celebration for people who died this year at Angels Grace Hospice. Michael was one of those people. I was both looking forward to and unsure of attending. I thought of little else during the day, so if a Moment happened, I didn’t notice. My mind was elsewhere.

The hospice stay was both soothing and traumatic. Michael had been through so much by then, and, by connection, so had I. I was Michael’s power of attorney, and while we’d talked a lot about what our final wishes were, it still felt very heavy and uncomfortable having to call the shots. Working my way through all the medical-ese, watching Michael as he made huge leaps forward, followed by huge falls back, trying to decide what was best, was the hardest thing I ever had to do.

And the decision to go to hospice was the hardest decision.

Michael was doing so well. We both thought he’d not only turned a corner, but he’d left it behind. We expected that he’d be going back to work in August. And then everything went wrong. The hardest thing to understand was Michael’s brain told him he was eating, but he wasn’t. He would hold his food for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then set it down. When he was asked if he was going to eat, he’d say, “What are you talking about? I ate the whole thing!” When the nurse or I would point out that his plate was just as full as when it came in, he saw it as empty.

Michael told me while we were planning that he wanted no artificial means of nutrition. I wanted to follow his wishes, but I was also desperate to get him back. So I agreed to something called a TPN, which was a step up from a stomach tube. It put nutrition directly into his veins. I hoped it would lift the brain fog and he would return.

He didn’t.

The day I agreed to hospice was the day a doctor was brutally honest with me, and told me that if I sent Michael to a long-term hospital, the end result was going to be the same. He was not going to recover. So I agreed to hospice. They had an ambulance there within the hour.

I had to run home for a couple clients, but then I went to the hospice. When I walked into his room, his beautiful, amazing room, and I looked at him, I knew I made the right decision. His bed was neatly made, fresh white sheets, a blue blanket, good pillows. There were huge French doors, looking out over a small lake. And he was asleep. Peaceful. Five days later, he was gone.

I received an invitation to go to this angel tree celebration. Everyone who passed at the hospice received a ceramic angel for those left behind to hang on the tree. Neither Michael nor I are really angel people. But something told me this was a good thing to go to. Olivia came with me, and my son Andy, and Olivia’s boyfriend Tim.

It was held in a church, and it was so full, we ended up sitting in the balcony. Over 400 angels were hung on the tree over the course of two hours. They didn’t go in alphabetical order, so I found myself straining to hear Michael’s name. To hear him. I was so worried I would miss him.

While we waited, I noticed that I’d received an email. I could see it was from a magazine I submitted a lyrical essay to, and the header was, “Thinking of you.” That’s an unusual response from a magazine, so I looked at the email.

The magazine is Months To Years, which devotes itself to poems and nonfiction pieces about death and dying. I’ve been in there a few times. The essay I submitted was the first thing I wrote after Michael’s death, about him and about what happened. And as I sat there, waiting to hear Michael’s name, I read that the essay was accepted. The response said,

“I am very backlogged on reading submissions and just read your lyrical essay “The Forest.” I love it (and we will accept it) but the reason I am writing is to say that I am so deeply sorry to hear of your husband’s death in June as well as of the traumatic accident and health ordeal your family had to endure. My heart aches for you and your family. I hope you are finding your way as best can be expected. But it can certainly be moment by moment….for a very long time.”

And now I’m writing a Moment. I am amazed, over and over again, by the compassion I’ve received.

Michael’s name was called out and Olivia and I went down together. We chose a spot on the tree and hung the ornament up with all the others. Michael’s in good company, surrounded by people who were well-loved. Before we hung the ornament, I hugged it to my heart.

Both Livvy and I wept our way back to our seats.

But as we sat there, through the rest of the names, watched people walking up and hanging their ornaments and weeping their way back, I looked again at the words from this editor, who accepted my essay.

“It can certainly be moment by moment.” Yes.

And I remembered my own words from this essay, near the end. When Michael was still in ICU, the doctor told me that he was improving, but that “he’s not out of the woods yet. He is deep, deep in the woods. All he can see are the trees.”

On August 1^st, a month and a half since Michael died, I wrote the essay and ended with, “But you return to the woods and you lose your way. Even though I call your name. Over and over. Until I have no voice left. You look over your shoulder, glow that smile, and then you’re gone.

I hope the forest is beautiful. I hope the sun comes back. There is no summer. Oh, to see your smile.”

Tonight, I saw his smile. I smiled back. The forest he is in is beautiful.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Today on Facebook, I was featured on a special page for the 50^th anniversary of my graduating high school – Waukesha North High School in Waukesha, Wisconsin. I am on North’s “Wall of Stars”. According to Waukesha North, those nominated for the Wall of Stars “must have demonstrated citizenship during and after high school, and must have made a significant contribution to the community and society.”

Honestly, among the awards I’ve received, it’s the one which means the most to me.

I say graduating high school, instead of simply “high school”, because I went to three schools. I was in one for freshman and sophomore year, one for first semester junior year, and finally, Waukesha North for second semester junior year and then senior year. By the time I got to Waukesha North, I was one angry and depressed kid.

But that landing place was perfect for me.

I very clearly remember walking through the high school for the first time, during Christmas break, so that I could get registered and sign up for classes. I thought, What the hell is this? The school was developed as “open concept” – which meant the rooms were movable, made of partition walls that could be rearranged in shape and in size. The partitions were colorful, but they didn’t go up to the ceiling, which meant when you were in one class, you could easily see into the class next door and hear what was going on. There were also gaps here and there, which made it exceedingly easy to slip out of class when the teacher’s back was turned.

Not that I ever did that. Noooo.

But when I saw the class listings, my eyes about popped out of my head. I already knew I wanted to be a writer. I already knew I WAS a writer. Plus, anything to do with reading enthralled me. This school had the usual menu, but then there were all these extras: writing classes like creative writing and journalism, and literature classes like Mystery & the Macabre, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Growing Up In Literature & Reality. For someone like me, this was a buffet! An all you can read and write buffet!

The very first class I walked into was creative writing. It was the class that changed my life and changed me forever.

Because suddenly…I excelled.

At Waukesha North, at least at that time, the arts carried just as much weight as sports, if not more. The art and music departments were phenomenal. And in the English Department – I was taken seriously. My dreams and ambitions were taken seriously. There was a literary magazine. There was also a school paper, and I quickly became involved in both. My creative writing teacher encouraged me to submit a story to the literary magazine, and I did. One afternoon, when I was in the media center, writing, he came to find me and showed me a comment on my submission. It was from one of the other students involved in producing the magazine. The comment said, “This story goes in the magazine or I quit!”

Oh, man.

The school built me up. It made me feel like I was worth something. My teachers praised me, but also pushed me. At one point, I remember I had to write a short story for both the creative writing class and for Growing Up In Literature & Reality. I asked to be able to write the same story for both classes. My creative writing teacher was the one who made the decision, while my literature teacher waited in deference. “No,” my teacher said. “You’re more than capable. Write two stories. And knock us both dead.”

I didn’t think I could do it. But “Yes, sir,” I said.  It was what he expected of me. And then I did it.

And then came the critique that pretty much set the tone for the rest of my life. I swear I felt my brain pivot, and then I looked out of eyes that were filled with a new perspective.

In this critique, my creative writing teacher told me I had a gift, which felt to me like a miracle, which felt like a gift he was giving me, because he said it to me and he meant it. He meant it! But with that gift, he said, came responsibility. The gift was worthless unless I used it. And I had to use it. I couldn’t let myself stop. He said there would be times I would be miserable, but it would be all right. I had to be responsible. I had to live up to what I could do.

Kind of like what I’ve been feeling since June 19^th of this year.

Teachers change lives. Mine was changed by this man. And it was changed by this school. Actually, it was more than change. My life was saved. More than once.

Having someone in my life who believes in me, has believed in me, and will always believe in me is a positive force I treasure. While my teacher, now my friend, believes in me, there’s one thing that takes it even further: he refuses to expect anything less than what he believes I can accomplish.

“You are fully capable…” he says, no matter what I ask and doubt.

And he’s saying it to me now too.

“Yes, sir.”

And the school is still behind me. On January 18^th, one day after the anniversary of Michael’s accident that eventually took his life, I will be giving copies of all 15 of my books for Waukesha North’s library. I am giving back, in the best way that I can. I wish I could do more.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I had a good bout of feeling sorry for myself at dinner a little bit ago. Michael was the cook in our family – I only know how to make a few things, and I don’t know how to make them for one person. My schedule is such that I normally teach until about 9:00 at night, and so when I come downstairs from my office or upstairs from my classroom, I’m ready for dinner, and Michael always had it ready for me.

Now there’s just me. And I don’t know how to cook. Nor do I have any real interest in doing so. One of my quirks, along with things like being terrified of birds and, you know, being a writer, is I don’t like to touch meat. It makes my skin crawl. This makes it really hard to cook.

So tonight, I had a break between clients and class, so I hustled down to the kitchen to figure out something for dinner. And the only thing I had time for was the can of Spaghetti-Ohs in my cupboard.

Remember Spaghetti-Ohs? The “neat round spaghetti you can eat with a spoon! Uh-oh, Spaghetti-Ohs!” Yep, those.

The can I had in my cupboard had those mysterious meatballs in it. I made it even better (worse?) by slicing up a couple hot dogs and throwing those in. And then I sat down to eat, by myself, at my island. And as I grumped about it, I took a bite, and you know what I remembered?

I freaking love Spaghetti-Ohs!

When I was a kid, my father was a bit…let’s say, picky with food. Some of it was positive, meaning that he would eat it. He’d build huge mashed potato mountains, similar to Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. He did the same with baked beans, and then loaded both with ketchup, running from top to bottom. He would take a Twinkie, then get out the can of Reddi-Whip, stick the nozzle into the Twinkie, and blow it up until the sponge cake was stretched to maximum proportions. Orange juice had to be a certain brand and a certain pulp, which he would drink at certain times of the day in a certain glass. The glass was never used for anything else. Oh, and he loved split pea soup, which he insisted we loved too, even as we gagged. I can’t even look at it to this day.

But some things weren’t so positive. He’d sit down to a meal we’d had millions of times before, look at it, and say to my mother, “What’s this slop?”

And there were certain things he would not eat. One of which was Spaghetti-Ohs. Also La Choy’s chop suey (another theme song: La Choy makes Chinese food…swing American!). And frozen banana cream pie.

My dad traveled a lot for his job, and whenever he was gone…my mother made all of these contraband foods. I remember her delight at just having to throw a can of Spaghetti-Ohs into a pot and heat it up, and set an aluminum pie tin filled with frozen pie on our table, to our cheers. No slop here. Easy to make.

And fully appreciated.

And so I wiped the self-pity away. I sprinkled my bowl of Spaghetti-Ohs with parmesan cheese, as if it was the finest spaghetti carbonara served in a fancy Italian restaurant. And then I ate it while humming the theme song. Too bad I didn’t have some wine to go with it.

What wine goes with Spaghetti-Ohs? Maybe I’ll pick some up for next week, along with a new can..

Now if I only had Jello 1-2-3 for dessert. Remember that? (Jello 1-2-3’s slogan: The only Jello that tops itself!) And, in my father’s memory, I could add Reddi-Whip.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Check out the commercials!

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Last week, my daughter Olivia messaged me, saying she was having “a moment”. This is not to be confused with my Moments, but it’s what we’ve begun to call those times when we are suddenly overwhelmed with grief. Sometimes, it’s expected, like with the holidays. Most times, though, they come out of nowhere.

In this case, she was working on a paper for a class in grad school. She had to report on an art project she did, and also how she felt that type of project could be used in her future career as an art therapist. She’d just written a paragraph about how the project kept her distracted from thinking about how it was the first Thanksgiving without her father. But then grief leaped in sideways when she realized that her father would never see the artwork she made for this project, And in fact, he will never see her artwork again.

As we talked about this, I started thinking aloud, and wondered if this was the reason why I was having such a hard time working on my new novel.

“Really?” Olivia asked.

I thought about it some more. “I think so,” I said.

The new book is coming slowly. I find myself staring at the blank page more than I ever have before. I’m not blocked (I don’t believe in writer’s block). I know what I want to write. I know what I want to show. I know these characters, and I watch them run ahead of me in my thoughts, but when I reach for the keyboard, I just find myself frozen. Most of the time. Not all of the time. I just passed 110 pages of this thing. But at my usual level of work, I should be just about done with the first draft by now, and…I’m not.

My first husband wasn’t a writer at all. He wasn’t much of a reader either. When we were in marriage counseling, he was told that he really needed to show an interest in my work. His response to that was to come in and ask me how many pages I’d written. And once he told me he was a writer too, because he wrote computer programs.

Yeah.

Michael was totally different, of course, He was a writer himself. His first question when he came home from work every day, well, the first question after asking me how I was, was “What did you write about today? How’s it going?” And I would tell him. Late at night, after I was finished with all my student work, I would read to Michael what I wrote that day. He’d read to me what he was working on. We’d workshop. But it was the only workshop I’ve ever done where we held hands while we did it.

Michael heard every single novel, short story collection, essay collection, and poetry collection that I’ve written. But now, when I read aloud, I’m reading only to myself. This will be the first book that he didn’t hear in its development. He even heard my latest, Don’t Let Me Keep You, while he lay nonresponsive in the ICU. He told me later he heard every word.

Well, maybe he’s hearing this one too, as I stumble along with it. Maybe.

But the thing is, this afternoon, I sat down to work on the book.

Before I wrote, I played the song I’ve assigned this book, just as I’ve assigned songs to all the books. In this case, it’s “Hello” by Evanescence. And I hugged an orange foofball cat as I listened to it. She pressed her nose to mine and we swayed together.

When the song ended, I set Cleo to the side and then I put my hands up to my temples, as if they were blinders, like on a racehorse. It drew my vision sharply to the screen, and to the last words I’d written. It blocked out the rest of the world.

I looked at my words and I said, out loud, “I can do this. I am going to draw from everything I know, everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve done, and I am going to put that knowledge and experience into this book. I can do this.”

And then I lowered my hands to the keyboard and that’s just what I did.

I can do this. And I breathed a sigh of relief when I did.

I think, goofing off with pronouns here, that when you become a we, and you remain a we for a very long time, and it’s a very good we to be a part of, you forget that before you were a we, you were a me. And that me is still there, the whole time. Including when the other half of your we is gone.

I’m still here. I’m just learning to be simply me all over again.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Without a doubt, my favorite morning of the week is Sunday. Partly because my Sunday morning is almost always Sunday afternoon, and I relish the chance to sleep in, to not wake up until my eyes open of their own accord, rather than being slammed open by an alarm. Sunday morning is spent by first luxuriously stretching, then pulling on a pair of raggedy old pajamas and padding downstairs. A good strong hot cup of coffee is waiting for me (whoever invented the coffeepot with a programmable timer is a saint!), and so are a couple of doughnuts, purchased on Saturday from one of a selection of bakeries. The Sunday paper is waiting for me too. If we are in the cold months, I turn on the fireplace and grab a fuzzy blanket; if not, I open the windows. Then I settle into my recliner, coffee on one side, doughnuts on the other, Sunday newspaper in my lap, and I sigh deep and proceed to enjoy myself.

It’s different, of course, now. Michael used to be to my right. We have a reclining loveseat, and he was always on the right, and I was on the left.

Michael’s favorite advice columnist was Carolyn Hax, who appears in our paper on Sunday mornings, so I always read the column out loud to him, and then we’d discuss it. Carolyn Hax doesn’t suffer any fools, and we both enjoyed her tell-it-like-it-is attitude and acerbic sense of humor.

This morning started by my eyes opening, not on their own accord, but because Cleocatra decided that my orchid really didn’t belong on my windowsill. My window is about a foot away from my side of the bed. The clonk of the pot and the plant’s scream for help, along with the skitter as Cleo did her cartoon cat run-in-one-place before taking off had me sitting up and then out of bed in about three seconds.

The plant survived. The cat…well, we’ll see.

Once my heart returned to normal, I settled into my usual routine. Pajamas on, down the stairs, coffee and doughnuts served, fireplace on, even though it was close to 50 degrees outside, and then I parked myself in my recliner. It only took about five minutes for Cleo to tuck herself under my chin, asking for forgiveness, which I grudgingly gave. Oliver, sleek orange tabby, especially compared to fuzzball orange chonk Cleo, settled on the arm of my recliner. Ursula, 60 pounds too heavy to be a lapdog, stretched herself out on the floor.

And of course, Michael’s recliner remained empty.

I read my way through the comics. Then I moved into the Life section, which is where Carolyn Hax lives. I first read the Bestselling Books list and the calendar which shows which authors are visiting the area this week. I read about an upcoming one-man performance of Dickens A Christmas Carol, performed by an autistic actor, and I wondered why it was important to mention that the actor was autistic. If he wasn’t, would the article have said it was performed by a neurotypical actor? And then I moved my way to Carolyn Hax.

I glanced up at Michael’s urn, sitting on the top of my piano across the room. I started to read the columm, but then I glanced up at the urn again.

Setting my coffee down, taking a moment to pat two orange heads, I studied the urn. I looked again at the empty recliner to my right. And then I read Carolyn Hax out loud.

It was the first time my Sunday morning-in-the-afternoon felt complete in almost six months. Even without the discussion. Because I know what Michael would have said, and I know what I would have answered. Twenty-five years of marriage make that happen.

Earlier, I’d told my son that Michael and I, and now I, spend $43 a month to receive the Wednesday paper, which I never read, but it’s included in the subscription, and the Sunday paper. And I just typically read three sections: the comics, the Life section, and the Business section to see what homes sold in my area this week.

Forty-three dollars.

While talking with my son, I wondered out loud why in the world I spent so much for so little.

But now I know it’s worth it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Yep, it’s late. I was out and about and actually having fun.

Two years ago, the Milwaukee County Zoo started having an event called Wild Lights. For the Christmas season, the entire zoo is bedecked in the most amazing lights. The first year, I went with Michael, my son Andy, my daughter Olivia, and my granddaughter, Grandgirl Maya Mae. Last year, it was just me, Andy and Olivia, because I’d sent Michael to Omaha for his Christmas and birthday present to visit with his mom and sister, who he hadn’t seen in years. In retrospect, I am so happy I did this. And this year, it was just me, Andy and Olivia.

For some reason this year, all of the animal buildings were closed. But the lights had been added to in amazing ways and were spectacular, and the favorites were there too.

I was excited to go, but this morning, when I woke up, my first thought was, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go where I remember him being. And, in general, it’s been very hard to get out of bed. But throughout the day, I gave myself a pep talk, and when it was time to go, I was ready.

It was chilly, but not bad. Even right now, at 9:40 at night, it’s 45 degrees outside. The first year we went, we were in a deep freeze snap, with temperatures below zero, and wind chills even further. I bought a puffer coat just for the occasion, and that coat has become my new winter best friend. I am amazed at how warm it keeps me.

We walked through the zoo, commenting on the new lights, happy to see the old lights, and disappointed that we weren’t able to get into any of the buildings. I remembered Michael walking alongside me, and how often I’d lost him when he’d stop to take a photo and I suddenly found him missing. Tonight, I felt him beside me again, but I also felt a whole new kind of missing.

But I didn’t tear up until I saw the moose.

Michael’s favorite animal was the moose. And not because of the animal, really, but because of Bullwinkle of the old animated series Rocky & Bullwinkle. Michael owned all sorts of Bullwinkle memorabilia, and all sorts of miscellaneous moose too. Our first official date was to this zoo, and at that time, the zoo had a pair of moose. Mooses? Meese? Moose. I told him how the bull moose had been there for years, but the female was found wandering around a town, I believe it was West Bend, and when she was finally caught, she was brought to the zoo. That day, we spent a lot of time by the moose enclosure. I was especially charmed by a man who so admired an animal that many people consider ungainly and unattractive. It meant, I hoped, that he could love me too.

And he did.

So tonight, we saw the lit-up moose again, and Olivia said, “Dad’s favorite animal.”

Yes.

We kept on moving, and eventually, we came to the rhino. “Look,” Olivia said. “Isn’t that your favorite animal?”

We have several rhino Christmas ornaments. I have a rhino beanie baby. There is a brass rhino on my keychain.

“No,” I said, looking at the rhino. “It was our favorite animal. Ours together.”

“You had a together animal?” Olivia asked.

I laughed out loud. This was not a story I could tell Olivia when she was a child. But now, maybe, since she’s 24…

And I mentioned it in this blog the other day too.

It’s a little inappropriate, so if you have innocent eyes, look away.

On our first date, when we got to the rhino enclosure, there was a crowd. Many were laughing. Eventually, Michael and I worked our way to the rail. The rhino yard was split in two. On one side, the zoo’s new female rhino. On the other, the male rhino.

Who had the biggest, hugest, gigantic-est erection I’ve ever seen in my life.

Oh, wonderful, for a first date.

The female rhino was apparently not impressed, because she turned and walked away. In despair, the male rhino folded his knees and dropped to the ground.

Right on top of the incredible erection.

Every man in that crowd let out a groan that could likely be heard for miles. I think the rhino did too. And…so did Michael.

I burst into laughter.

And so the rhino became our favorite.

On this night, while Olivia looked horrified, I burst into laughter all over again.

What a hell of a way to begin a serious relationship. I could not stop smiling the rest of the way through the zoo, on that first date, or on this night.

So, I have to say, while working on these every day now, I don’t know that my sadness has become any less. But they are helping me to look back and relish good memories. And to remember Michael as he was, before January 17^th of this year. I am seeing him as him again. Hearing him as he was. Not as he was in the ER, the hospital, the rehab, the hospital again, and hospice. And in those final minutes.

But as him.

And I am hearing myself laugh again.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

The Moment will likely be late tonight. I’m going out for a special event tonight, and it will likely end up being my Moment, unless there’s something even more Momenty that happens before then. So don’t worry if you don’t see something until fairly late tonight.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I just said yesterday that I really don’t like Christmas. And this year is harder than most.

The youngest of all of us is my granddaughter, Grandgirl Maya Mae. She’s been very quiet about her grandfather’s accident and death. She has six grandparents, thanks to my being divorced from her father’s father, and both my ex and I getting remarried. So she’s had an abundance. Michael is the first one for her to lose. Maya is eleven years old, very quickly moving on to twelve, and at times, seeming like she’s already an adult. She’s always been such a responsible kid.

When she was around two, and in the midst of potty-training, I brought her back to her house one evening, after I’d been babysitting her. I went to use their bathroom before going back to my house, and she asked to come with me. While I did my business, she did hers, on her potty chair. Then, to my amazement, she got up, emptied the potty chair, stepped up on a stepstool, washed out the bowl of the chair, dried it, set it back, and then washed her hands. When we left the bathroom, she hung up her jacket on the peg and headed upstairs. “Maya,” I called. “Where are you going?”

“It’s time to put on my pajamas and go to bed,” she said.

And she did.

A few years ago, in the pandemic, she was in, I believe, the first grade, and she handled the switch to online schooling well. She asked her dad to order her an alarm clock, so she could make sure she was up on time and ready to go.

She amazes me.

In Facebook memories a few days ago, the time came up that I took her to see Frozen II. Afterwards, we went to lunch and discussed the movie. We talked about how Elsa had to learn that she was strong and smart and could do just fine on her own. This confused Maya. Sitting across from me at McDonalds, she raised her bare arms (Maya always dresses Maya, and that winter day, she was in a sleeveless dress with a ballet skirt) and made muscles. “I knowed I am strong,” she said. Then she patted her head. “I knowed I am smart,” she said. She smiled at me. “I’m going to be just fine,” she said.

I was delighted. And I hope, as she moves into these stormy waters of adolescence, that she stays that way.

But now she’s lost a grandfather.

Last year, sometime in the fall, Maya was at our house. She and Grandpa were goofing around, and somehow, they came up with a story about a potato. A living, breathing superhero potato, mind you. I was working upstairs and I could hear them whooping with laughter as this potato’s adventures got bigger and bigger.

Later, when Michael was shopping for our Christmas meal, he’d already gotten in line when the idea hit that he should get a potato and put it in Maya’s stocking for Christmas. He said something about it to the woman behind him, and added that he’d have to load the stuff in the car, then run back into the store and get the potato.

She got out of line and ran to get one for him.

So on Christmas day, Maya found a potato in her stocking. You’d think it was a pot of gold. And it was their special thing.

I thought about that as I worked on my Christmas shopping list. I wondered if I should get Maya a potato this year. I wondered if it would make her sad, or if it would help to have a great and unique memory.

But I also wanted something that would stay. Not something that would either have to be cooked and eaten, or that would eventually rot and have to be thrown away.

And then I thought of Mr. Potato Head.

Remember Mr. Potato Head? The big brown plastic potato with holes in it, so you could put in eyes and ears and a mouth and glasses and shoes and all sorts of things?

So I went on a search. The only ones I found were pretty  modern, or had too many potato people. I didn’t want the complication. I wanted just a Mr. Potato Head, the big guy, with parts to stick in him. Not pirate parts. Not Star Wars parts. Just big goofy eyes and a red nose and a big smile, and blue shoes and maybe a mustache and glasses.

And I found him today. He’s supposed to arrive here by the 12^th.

I’m still having second thoughts. Will it make her sad? I don’t know, because, as I said, she’s been quiet. But, as she moves into these teenage years, I want her to remember the gentle grandpa who held her when she wasn’t even a day old, who looked at her adoringly, who called her “Flirt,” to which she replied as a toddler, “I not a firt!”, and who spent an entire afternoon, making up an unlikely story with a potato hero.

Michael wasn’t her only grandfather, but she is our only grandchild. He adored her. And so do I.

It made me happy to find Mr. Potato Head, and to find a way to remind Maya of a wonderful afternoon. And how special even a potato can be.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Today is the 5^th of December. 20 days til Christmas. And my response to that is, “Blech.”

I used to be a huge fan of Christmas. My house was decorated from top to bottom, necessitating the moving of furniture and the packing up of everyday knick-knacks, followed by the hauling out of boxes and boxes of my collection of Santa tree toppers, and Christmas music globes, and doorknockers and wreaths and…you get the picture.

But somewhere around the millennium, that all went away. We still had trees and such, but during the pandemic, I just went out to Walgreens and bought a small tabletop tree and teeny ornaments and let it go at that. My Facebook profile picture became the Grinch. I was, and am, a very busy person. Christmas mostly became about work.

A couple years ago, Michael and I came across a six-foot tall, very skinny, rose gold Christmas tree. It fit exactly in the spot between my piano and the wall, and so it required no moving of furniture or anything else. Because the condo doesn’t have a basement to store things in, this was a huge plus. But truly, standing there, looking at this unusual color and its brightness, I was enamored. I also kept hearing Lucy from the Charlie Brown Christmas special, saying, “Get the biggest, shiniest aluminum Christmas tree you can, Charlie Brown. Maybe painted pink!” This tree wasn’t pink. Michael called it champagne. I stuck with rose gold.

We brought it home and it’s been up and decorated every Christmas since. I remember that first year, Michael looked at me as I sat in my recliner and stared and stared at the decorated tree, and he said, “Who ARE you?”

Well, that’s always been the question, donchaknow.

But this year is different. At first, I really wanted the tree, and all of the family ornaments. With Michael gone, I still wanted the familiarity, the joy, the memories that each ornament brings. I have an ornament for each first Christmas of each of my four children. I have ornaments representing our cats and our dogs, and ornaments representing Michael’s and my shared love of rhinos, which came from our first official date (that’s another story). It seemed really important to have these up.

But…there are these two cats. Young cats. Still kittens, really, though more adolescents now. And both orange, and I’ve been told that orange cats tend to be a little…crazy.

Oliver arrived in April, after first, my 14-year old cat, Edgar Allen Paw, passed away in February, and then my 20-year old cat, Muse, passed away the day after her birthday in April. I went to the humane society to find an older cat, but came home with a 9-month old kitten who needed me. His middle name quickly became Dennis the Menace, and I at times tore my hair out, wondering what I’d done. Then, a few months ago, I adopted a buddy for him, Cleocatra, who was…4 months old. Ohmygod, even younger. Oliver is now a year and a half old, Cleo, 6 months. Both orange.

At first, I thought we’d still do the tree. I schemed with my son, and we came up with a way to put a hook in the rafters above the tree and tie it, so it wouldn’t tip over.

But the ornaments. I could so easily see the cats getting on the piano and just batting the ornaments, one by one, off the tree.

I pictured the shattered mess. I saw my favorite ornament, one that was my grandmother’s, in pieces. I saw my ornaments from the Walton’s Mountain museum, broken. And the faces of each of my babies, on their first Christmases.

I realized I just couldn’t handle any more loss this year. So I gave up on the tree.

Instead, I found a tabletop ceramic tree, with little lights all over it, and a silver star on top. It’s new, but it’s like the ones we all had in the 80s. It sits on my island, and can be seen in the kitchen and the living room. During this year, I visited St. Vincent’s, and I found an unusual and lovely nativity set, carved out of wood. Joseph was missing an arm, but that just increased the charm for me – I have a thing for giving damaged goods a home. Just ask my clocks. So I had that here, in my closet, and I brought it out and set it around the Christmas tree, even though I’m pretty sure there weren’t any lit evergreens in a stable in Bethlehem.

And I thought it would do, though it still made me sad to look at it, and then at the corner where my rose gold tree was supposed to be, with all its memories.

Then, I made a trip to Walgreens. As I left, I walked through the Christmas aisle. And I was drawn to a cone-shaped, tabletop, clear plastic beveled Christmas tree. It lit up. And while it was plastic, it looked bejeweled. I put it back on the shelf. But then picked it up again. And then picked up a matching mate. I brought them home.

At first, I put them around the ceramic tree and the nativity set. But they glowed brighter, and made the nativity look like a Hollywood set, complete with a disco ball. I drummed my fingers on the island, and then looked over at the piano, where Michael’s urn stands. Because of a little wall partition, that corner is pretty dark. The lights from the ceramic tree didn’t reach the urn, as the lights from the rose gold tree would have.

So I picked up the two new trees and placed them around Michael. He is now doused in Christmas light. Should the cats jump up there and smack these off, they weren’t expensive. They aren’t filled with memories.

But they surely helped last night, when I turned off all the other lights, except for the ceramic tree and the two plastic trees, and I sat and looked at Christmas.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.