Author: Kathie

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

I’m not a big fan of birds.

Which is why I think it came as a big surprise to everyone when Michael and I moved in together, and then got married. Michael came with birds. Parakeets. Four of them. Lucky, Plucky, Ducky, and Happy. When Michael lived alone in his apartment, he would let the birds out of their cages, and they would sit on the arm of the couch, or on his own arm, or, horror of horrors, in his hair. While Michael lived with me, the birds were only allowed out when he cleaned the cage. I left the house.

And while some birds were added over our first few years together, eventually, the birds were gone.

I can trace my dislike and fear of birds back to the exact moment it started. I was seven or eight years old and I found a dead bird. I carried him home to give him a decent burial. My mother immediately smacked him out of my hands, brought me down to the basement to the laundry tubs (because my hands were too filthy with dead bird cooties to wash in the bathroom sink), and proceeded to scrub my hands until they hurt, all while telling me how birds were covered in bugs and parasites and germs and diseases, and now I’d gone and held one. With both hands! With all ten fingers!

Shortly after that, I saw Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds.

And that pretty much took care of it. I am absolutely terrified of birds, most especially the red-winged blackbird. One of my favorite places is the Riverwalk in Waukesha, a lovely path that follows the Fox River, but I haven’t been able to walk there for three years. The last summer I walked there, I was attacked three separate times by a red-winged blackbird, the last time causing me to fall as I ran away and the damn bird just kept tearing into my hair while I lay face down on the pavement.

Yet I’ve always had a special affinity for large birds. If I see sandhill cranes, I have to pull over and watch them for a bit. I love pelicans and penguins. Flamingoes and peacocks. Owls and eagles. But while I enjoy watching them, I would not relish being close to them.

And I am totally freaked out by turkeys and geese.

Today, I was in a particularly busy section of Waukesha. Four-lane traffic (not counting turn lanes). Lots of businesses. Very close to the freeway. I’d been out for a haircut, and was going from there to my piano lesson. The last thing I was thinking about was birds. I was trying to pull out of a strip mall parking lot, entering the busy traffic without the benefit of a stoplight, and so I was looking both ways to make sure I could sneak in. When I turned my head to the left, though, it wasn’t a car I saw.

It was a turkey.

At first, he stood next to my car, tail feathers spread, looking right at me. Behind him were three other turkeys. He was very near to my car, and after wondering what the hell wild turkeys were doing in such a busy area of Waukesha, I began to worry that if I tried to move into the street, I would accidentally hit him. And maybe his three friends too. The turkey, for his part, kept moving forward a few steps, then backing up, then moving forward again. I thought about opening my window and shouting at him, but that might startle him and he would fly at me through the window.

Which immediately made me think of the Thanksgiving episode of the old TV show WKRP In Cincinnati. A classic episode, where the radio station staged an event where they threw live turkeys from a helicopter so they could fly down to the parking lot below, and people could bring turkeys home for dinner. This culminated in the line that anyone who loved this show can recite from memory, from Mr. Carlson, the station owner: “As God is my witness…I thought turkeys could fly.”

So this turkey would not fly at me through my window. But still. It was big. Maybe it would climb. Or peck my car.

He took a couple steps forward. He took a couple steps back. He folded his tail, which was good. He didn’t look so alarming that way. But he was still…a bird.

I opened my window. “Shoo,” I said.

He didn’t.

“Go away,” I said. “Go back. I’ll pull my car out, and then you can cross.”

He looked at me some more. The other three birds started to take an interest in me too.

“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He flapped. Maybe he couldn’t fly, but those wings were huge. It was like he was saying, “Well, then do something already!”

I sighed and looked in my rearview mirror. No one was behind me. “Hang on a sec,” I said to the turkey. And then I backed up.

With the sidewalk cleared, the turkey gave me one more glance and then walked in front of my car and kept on going. Behind him, a respectful distance, the other three followed.

I watched them go, strolling up Grandview Avenue like sophisticated city birds, or as close to sophisticated as a turkey can look.

I closed my window and then quickly checked myself. No sign of bird cooties. No bugs, parasites, germs, or diseases. But I’d faced a major source of fear without letting myself bolt blindly, in my car, into traffic to get away. I’d been respectful, backed up, and let the birds go first.

And I don’t even like turkeys. Or birds.

Delighted with myself, and wanting to celebrate, I thought about going to a pet store and buying myself a couple parakeets in Michael’s memory.

I thought maybe I would return to the Riverwalk in the spring.

Maybe.

But I was nice to turkeys.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Tis the season for deliveries.

This morning, in between clients, my Alexa informed me that there was a delivery at my door. She sounded exasperated, like she was getting tired of telling me these things. My doorbell had been going off a lot, and I have an entire collection now of photos of my front door, packages leaning against it.

I thanked her, because I am almost always polite, and trotted downstairs to get the package. As I did, another Amazon truck pulled up. I waited until he opened the door and then I called, “Are you here for me? Number 2?”

He nodded and held up one finger, telling me to wait just a second. I noticed that he was bundled to the max – heavy jacket, winter boots, earmuffs under his upraised hood. He also looked tired.

He went into the back of the truck and then came back out. He handed me a box. As he did, his little gadget that reads the codes slid out of his hand and hit the pavement.

I recognized then the slouch he moved into. Tired shoulders, tired body, tired, tired, tired. Too tired to be exasperated. His whole body said, “I’ve had it.”

He picked up the gadget and looked at it. “It shut off,” he said. “I’ll have to scan your package again. Hang on. It takes a while to turn on.” He pressed a button and stared at the gadget bleakly. Then he stepped back into the truck and sat on the seat.

I hadn’t put on a coat, since I thought I was just grabbing a package and running back upstairs. It was cold.

He kept staring at the gadget. From time to time, he heaved a sigh so deep, it was like his jacket inflated, then deflated.

I didn’t see a nametag on his jacket, so I said, “Sir?” When he looked back at me, I said, “Sir, would you like a cup of coffee?”

He lit up a little. “I would love one,” he said.

I glanced toward my door. “I made a flavored coffee this morning. It’s gingerbread. Are you okay with that?”

He lit up more. “I love gingerbread. My grandmother used to make gingerbread men.” He turned wistful. “I haven’t had one of those in years.”

“Do you want sugar? Creamer?” I hoped not. The only creamer I had was storebought Starbucks cinnamon dolce. I didn’t know how that would go with gingerbread.

“Just black please,” he said. He looked back at his gadget, but I noticed the start of a smile.

I turned to go inside, then remembered the box. “Should I bring this with me?”

“Oh…” he said. “I’ll take it. I still have to scan it.”

So I brought in the original package I came down for. Stopping in my classroom first, I pulled out a disposable cup from the back of a cupboard. It came with a lid, which I figured would be important in that truck. Then I took the cup, the lid, and the package upstairs to my kitchen, where I heated up some coffee. As I waited, I glanced at the top of my microwave.

Sitting there was a peppermint-striped gift bag that I’d received on Monday. My brother and sister-in-law came to Madison to see me while I made my presentation. Afterwards, my sister-in-law handed me the bag.

I looked inside and gasped. “Krumkake?!” I said.

She laughed.

My sister-in-law makes the world’s best krumkake. I was twelve years old when I discovered krumkake, as my family moved to Stoughton, an everything-Norwegian town outside of Madison. An amazingly light, sweet, wafery, tubular cookie, it quickly became my favorite.

Every Christmas, my sister-in-law made Christmas cookies to bring to the celebration at my parents’ home, then my mother’s apartment after my father passed away. My mother loved krumkake as much as I did, and in the early years, she would quickly pick out all the krumkake from the assortment and hide them, so that only she would get them. In later years, the amazing cookie showed up in its own container, and if I was lucky, I could talk my mother out of one.

My daughter, Katie, who loves to cook and bake, knows how much I love these little cookies, and one year, she asked for a traditional krumkake iron to make the cookie herself. I happily got her one. She made the cookies once…even burned, they taste good, by the way…and never made any more. The krumkake iron sat in my cupboards, just in case, doncha know, until Michael passed away.

When I cleaned out all the kitchen cupboards after his death, in what I know now was an attempt to try to bring my life back under control, I donated the iron. It just seemed like there was so much loss. It hadn’t been used in years, and Katie no longer lives in Wisconsin.

And now, there was this peppermint-striped bag.

And downstairs, there was a very tired man.

My mother may have hidden these cookies, but I would not.

I didn’t give them all away either. I pulled out two, put them in a little baggie, and then ran back downstairs.

The man was standing at the ready, my box in his hands. “Already scanned,” he said, and then traded with me, passing me the box while I passed him the coffee and the krumkake. He held up the baggie.

“Those are –” I started to explain.

“Krumkake!” he bellowed. “Ohmygod, my grandmother made these too! Thank you!”

I’d like to say he no longer looked tired, but he did. Still, he smiled, beamed, really, and his step was lighter as he got back into the truck.

“Thank you!” he called.

I waved my box. “Thank you for your service,” I said. “Have a great Christmas.”

“You too!” He drove off.

Sometimes it just takes so little to make someone’s day, and then to make yours too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(However, I’m not giving away any more krumkake. They’re MINE.)

 

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

One of my favorite Christmas albums is the David Foster’s The Christmas Album. In fact, other than Trans Siberian Orchestra’s The Christmas Attic, I don’t think I own any other Christmas albums.

I saw David Foster’s Christmas Album first, as a television special in 1993. It’s a stellar performance of incredible vocal stars, and I was thoroughly enjoying it, until Michael Crawford came on and sang “Oh Holy Night”.

I adore Michael Crawford. And “Oh Holy Night” is my favorite Christmas carol. I was smitten, and bought the album. The first year I had Spotify, because my new car, a 2018 Chrysler 300S, didn’t have a CD player, I downloaded the album. I generally play it the entire month of December, including when I’m wrapping presents, and “Oh Holy Night” always gets hit with replay, replay, replay, replay. I sing until I am hoarse.

This year though, I didn’t hit play on The Christmas Album until today. As I listened to the album while driving back and forth on errands and appointments, I hummed along. Until I got to “My Grown-Up Christmas List”, sung by Natalie Cole. This song has a habit of making me choke up, but I usually listen all the way through, and sing where I can force my voice out through a clogged throat.

Today, I made it to the line, “And love will never end,” and I hit the pause button so hard, my car veered.

Okay. So this year, I won’t be listening to that song. This year, I’m not a grown-up with a Christmas list. I am old, or at least, I feel older than I ever have, and if I had a Christmas list, it would hold an impossible wish. Sorry, Natalie. We shall not duet this year. I am more than a little tired of crying.

When I hit play again, I immediately smacked the little arrow that makes it jump to the next song. And then I took a deep breath and began to hum.

When “Oh Holy Night” came on, I had just come back to the car after picking up a few things at the grocery store. I started the car, put on my seatbelt, and then heard the opening strands. I sat back, my car still warm from the previous trips, and listened.

When I was a kid, my favorite Christmas carol was “We Three Kings”. I loved the rhythm of it, and the alliteration (field and fountain, moor and mountain…), and just the idea of these three kings wandering around after a star. The anticipatory start of the refrain, the long-held and boisterous “ooooooOOOOOOOH!”, always put me in mind of a song sung by happy people at a party, and later, when I was older, at a bar.

Then, Christmas, 1978, I was sitting alone in my room, watching the Carpenters’ Christmas Special on my small black and white portable television. Richard Carpenter came on and played “Oh Holy Night”, accompanied by an orchestra. It was the first time I heard Richard Carpenter on his own, not accompanying his sister, but just throwing himself into the piano.

I was spellbound.

And from that point on, “Oh Holy Night” was my favorite. Whoever is performing it, I hear Richard Carpenter’s fingers flying over the keys, and I see him beaming as he reaches the emotional  peak in the song.

So today, a day when I finally played my favorite Christmas album, and I couldn’t listen to, let alone sing, “My Grown-Up Christmas List”, I closed my eyes and sang my heart out with Michael Crawford, and heard Richard Carpenter playing with us both. I mean, I belted it. I didn’t care who was around me.

It is amazing how music can tear our hearts out. And it’s even more amazing how it can lift us up.

(By the way – I am totally butchering “Silent Night” and “Here We Come A’Caroling” in my piano lessons right now. The pets are all leaving the room again, though Cleo, at least, stayed on the stairs today. I will never ever ever be a Richard Carpenter. But that’s okay too. He will never be me.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

A sort of philosophical post today, I suppose. Maybe because today is the 16^th, and I am now about halfway through my goal of returning the blog to its original once-a-day format, just for the month of December. Has it helped? I’m not sure. It’s definitely gone in ways I haven’t expected.

Today, I traveled to Madison, Wisconsin, to present at a book group held in a retirement home. I was asked to talk about where I get my ideas from. I stopped at my favorite Starbucks as I headed out of town, and my order was taken by one of my favorite baristas. I told him where I was going and why. This barista, who also writes, said, “What are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have no idea where the ideas come from. Hopefully, I’ll figure it out by the time I get there.”

Shortly after I got on the freeway, my phone erupted with a variety of notifications. Because my phone and my car are attached, I was able to see at least glimpses of some of them on my car’s GPS screen as I drove. From what I saw, I realized that there had been a school shooting in the same city where I was going. I called my brother, who was coming to my presentation, and received assurances that I wouldn’t be anywhere near where the shooting took place.

The drive between Waukesha and Madison is boring. Flat lands, and at this time of year, brown dead lands. No snow to liven things up. No brightly colored trees or even deep green trees. So I found myself pretty deep in thought as my car and I worked our way to Madison.

This morning, parents sent their kids off to school. The kids were likely looking forward to seeing their friends, or they were counting down the days to Christmas break, or they were worried about a test. Parents were probably doing their own things as well, trying to stay on schedule.

And then all hell broke loose.

It’s amazing, really, how quickly things can change. Some say in a breath, but sometimes it’s faster than you can inhale and exhale. Sometimes it’s not even in a blink. Your eyelid is only halfway back up and you’re looking at a new world.

On the morning of January 17^th, 2024, Michael left for work. I heard him moving around the bedroom as he got ready, but I’m not aware of when he actually left. I’d asked him to not kiss me goodbye anymore, because it always woke me up, and I had trouble going back to sleep until it was time for my alarm to go off.

I wish now I’d never asked him to stop.

Just before 6:00 in the evening, I messaged him, complaining that for the third day in a row, he hadn’t taken out the garbage. I didn’t know, and neither did he, that he was four minutes away from being hit by a passenger van as he tried to cross a street to get to his bus stop. To come home.

Michael didn’t expect his life to change that day. I didn’t expect mine to change either. But look how quickly it can happen.

In an odd twist, when I received the call early in the morning of June 19^th, from the hospice, I experienced the exact opposite. I was expecting his life to change, and mine too. The nurse told me to hurry in, and I did, with Olivia by my side. We were there when he quietly left us.

And so everything changed.

I did my appearance in Madison, talking to the participants  about creativity and imagination, and then reading to them from Don’t Let Me Keep You. And then I drove back through the campus of the University of Wisconsin – Madison, on my way back home.

The campus is hugely changed from when I was there. Honestly, I don’t know how they’re managing to squeeze so many buildings in to what was already a busy campus. I recognized a few things, but mostly, it looked unfamiliar to me. But I was looking forward to seeing where I used to live, as a student.

Zoe Bayliss Coop. It was owned by the UW, but it was different than a dorm. 55 women lived under one roof. We each helped at one meal a week, and we each had one chore a month to do. The scheduling changed throughout the year. Because we were involved with the running of the coop, it was much cheaper than living in the dorms.

I absolutely loved it.

So as I drove in heavy traffic, I watched for the coop. As I got closer, I saw massive construction equipment. And I thought, Oh, no.

The coop is gone.

As I continued my drive, though, an interesting thing happened. While I was sad that the coop was gone, my mind immediately went to wonderful times there. The women I knew. The late night ordering of Pizza Pit pizza while studying. Eating coffee ice cream for the first time at the Union. Standing forever in the shower, and taking a shower every day, which I was never allowed to do at home. Parties. Going to the Nitty Gritty and ordering drinks with decadent names – Sex On The Beach, the Dirty Screw. My own decision to put my focus on writing, not keeping it a hobby while I worked elsewhere, but really digging in to what I wanted my life to be.

The same thing has been happening with the daily blog. My original thought was that it would distract me to other things, besides the sadness at losing Michael. And there has been some of that. But there’s also been the rising up of good memories. Pushing aside those five months between accident and death.

Driving through Madison, especially the parts that were familiar, reminded me that I did have a life before Michael. And of course, I had the life with Michael, twenty-five years of marriage, and about thirty years of knowing each other.

And now, here I am again, in a life without Michael. A life where I fully understand how things can change in less than a breath, in less than a blink.

But it can still be good. There is the warmth of memory. Things that I will never ever forget. Things that changed me, generally for the better.

And so now too.

I guess today’s Moment is that I realized, as I drove through memories, and through the very clear representation around me that things change, and it’s still okay, well, I can be okay too.

One Moment at a time.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

They say that pets lower your blood pressure. They say that pets help keep you calm and relaxed, surround you with boundless unconditional love, would do anything for you, and on and on.

They say a lot of things.

I watch videos, along with everyone else, where pets do miraculous things. Save their owners from fire. Alert them to burglars and bad weather. Run for help when Timmy falls down a well.

And then I look at my three, one dog and two cats, and I glance around at my wreck of a house, and I think, Really?

The latest stretch of challenges began late last night (or early this morning), when I’d finally settled down to sleep. It was quiet, the only sound being my sound machine and the drone of the guided meditation I listen to, which often puts me to sleep. And this is when Ursula, my dog, has a nightmare.

Most dogs, when they have nightmares, move their legs as if they’re running, maybe whine a little, give little woofs.

Ursula howls. An otherwise mostly silent dog, except for her groans when she knows you’re eating French fries, her sneezes when she’s excited, and her huffs (loud breaths of air) as she runs down the stairs to greet you, we never hear her bark.

But when she has a bad dream: “AROOOOOOOOOO!”

Usually, it takes me calling her name once, maybe twice, and she wakes up and settles down. Last night, after the fourth time of not calling, but yelling, I finally got out of bed, turned the light on, walked to her loveseat, and shook it while saying her name with three definite syllables: “UR—SU—LAAAAAAA!”

She woke up. I stayed up.

Then this morning, my favorite morning of the week, I’d just settled down in my recliner with my hot coffee, my apple cider doughnuts sent to me by a lovely student, my three sections of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, fireplace on, when Cleocatra (Cleo) jumped up on the back of the couch. Not unusual. But today was.

Across the street, in the Waukesha Transit Center, which is a parking garage and a bus station, hundreds of pigeons live. Crazy pigeons. Pigeons who think they’re starlings. Kamikaze pigeons who make me duck when I’m out on the deck, who fly and swerve over cars, who seem to have no sense at all of life preservation, and who have often flown smack into my floor-to-ceiling windows in the second floor living room. To combat this, and really, to attempt to help them, I’ve hung a few art pieces, mostly stained glass, on the windows to let the pigeons know that, hey, this is not air. This is glass. One of the pieces, which I bought in Oregon two summers ago, was made of driftwood, with long strings of glass beans hanging down.

Cleo, who has been here for several months now, and Oliver, who has been here since April, haven’t paid much attention to it, as they’re often attracted to watching the whacko birds.

But this morning, my peaceful Sunday morning, Cleo chose to see the beads hanging from the driftwood, and swat at them.

“Cleo,” I said calmly. “Stop it.”

She didn’t.

“Cleo!” I said more sharply. “Leave that alone!”

Bat, bat, bat.

“CLEO!!!!” I bellowed, just as she somehow caught a claw in one of the little holes in a bead where the fishline goes through.

She frantically started swinging her paw and leg around, trying to escape, as I tried to get up off my recliner without spilling anything. Before I got to her, she gave a mighty yank and tore the whole piece down, where it promptly fell behind the couch.

My blood pressure was so low!

I managed, through much contortion, to get the piece out from behind the couch, and then carefully, while my coffee got cold and paper went unread, I detangled all of the strings. I then hung it from our door leading to the back second floor deck. It cannot be reached.

While I did this, Oliver ate half of one of my doughnuts.

However.

Later, as I took a break from doing the laundry, unloading the dishwasher, picking up the groceries, coming home and finding a puddle present from Ursula, putting the groceries away, and reading student manuscripts, I sat, for just a few minutes, on my recliner. In seconds, Cleo was curled on my chest, her head under my chin, and she set up her purr. Her purr is no motorboat…it’s a yacht.

Then Oliver jumped onto the armrest on my left. He leaned into me and began to purr as well. While his purr isn’t as vigorous, it’s steady.

Ursula, sixty pound Ursula, jumped into Michael’s empty recliner on my right. She sat down, leaned over the console between the recliners, and put her concrete head on my shoulder. She doesn’t purr, but she would if she could.

It was a Moment to close my eyes and soak in the sound, the rhythm, the warmth.

The love.

And my blood pressure dropped. (At least until the next bit of chaos.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Michael loved Christmas. His birthday is two days afterwards, and he liked to grumble that his big day was pushed aside by an upstart from Bethlehem. But even with that upstart, he enjoyed the holiday to the fullest.

When we first moved in together, he arrived with boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations. He had an entire Christmas village. One of his favorite ornaments was a spatula, given to him by a nephew. He had Rocky and Bullwinkle ornaments, Lone Ranger ornaments, Dudley Do-Right ornaments, Monopoly ornaments, ornaments that looked like old time radios, ornaments, ornaments, ornaments. For the first couple years of our combined lives together, you could barely see the tree for the ornaments, when ours were blended. As time went by though, more of the tree was devoted to family ornaments, and Michael’s village and some ornaments stayed in the storeroom. We downsized to a smaller tree as well, and there just wasn’t room.

Not the spatula, though. It always made it on the tree.

This year, all of Michael’s Christmas stuff is in the storeroom, which is off-site since we don’t have a basement. My Christmas stuff, and our Christmas stuff, is there too. I just couldn’t stand to go there and start digging through.

As I wrote before, we’re making do with a new little ceramic Christmas tree, a wooden nativity set I found at St. Vinnie’s, and two plastic lit-up cone-shaped trees from Walgreens, set around the urn.

But then yesterday, something caught my eye as I walked through the kitchen.

Michael also loved little rubber duckies. He kept bringing them home, though he also had some on his desk at work. . On the rim of my bathtub, there is a duckie that looks like an orange cat, and a duckie that looks similar to Ursula. Michael had duckies that looked like vampires, Edgar Allen Poe, cows, and well, anything that wasn’t a duckie.

There was also a Christmas duckie that had reindeer antlers on its head. And yesterday, I found it sitting on the electric socket that is wired into one of the beams that goes on either side of our island, up to the ceiling.

No, it didn’t appear there by a Christmas miracle. It appeared there because somehow, over the last couple years, Michael just kept “forgetting” to put it with the Christmas stuff to take back to the storeroom. Which means, of course, that he didn’t want to put the reindeer duckie away.

I’d forgotten all about it. But there it was. And in the middle of the afternoon, I stopped dead, gasped, and then laughed out loud.

Duckies. For God’s sake.

Every time I’ve walked through the kitchen since, I’ve looked at that duckie and either laughed or at least smiled.

And then today, I moved it. It’s where it belongs, with the person who loved it most.

There is now a reindeer duckie sitting on the top of Michael’s urn.

And I think it may just stay there. I won’t have the heart to bring it to the storeroom, or to put it back on the electric socket. It would make Michael happy.

And it’s made me happy.

So far, no one else has noticed the reindeer rubber duckie on the urn. How long do you suppose this will take?

It’s a secret, that I’m sharing with Michael. We always loved having secrets.

(Michael also had a disembodied rubber hand that made an appearance in a variety of places at Halloween. Whoever found it had to hide it again. This Halloween, it stayed tucked away. But I do believe it will come back when it’s Halloween again.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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.

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