This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

I’ve learned that grief moments come out of nowhere. But so do the Moments I write about here. Could be that most of life, good and bad, is unexpected.

Today is the day after Christmas. It is also the day before what would have been Michael’s 60^th birthday. I turned 60 in 2020. Michael, 5 years younger than me, did not.

The five years difference in our ages really didn’t usually bother me. The only times I twitched were when we would realize that the year I started high school, he was only in the fifth grade. Or the year I started college, he was starting high school. Or the year he started college, I’d graduated, and I was married and expecting a baby.

But the year I turned 60, it bothered me. With each of Michael’s birthdays since then, I’ve complained, “Will you hurry up and get in  your sixties? I don’t like that you’re still in your fifties when I’m sixty (61, 62, 63…).”

Well, Michael died shortly after he turned 59. He will never be in his sixties. And at times, I can hear him laughing.

Last year, Michael and I were not together for his birthday. As a combination Christmas and birthday present, I flew him to Omaha, to see his mother and sister and other family members, who he hadn’t seen since before the pandemic. So the last birthday I spent with Michael was in 2022.

So I’m stuck in the mire right now. Christmas, Michael’s birthday, New Year’s, and the anniversary of his accident. Today was a day that pretty much reflected that. We’ve been under a dense fog warning since last night. During the day, it’s been gray and murky. Now that the sun, wherever it was, went down, it’s black with a wash of gray over it. Walking outside, you’re immediately immersed in cold and moist. All day, geese have been flying over, and they are gray shadows. I think they’re lost.

Me too.

Partway through the day, I glanced at the time and realized that Starbucks was going to close in 25 minutes and I hadn’t been there yet. Horrors! So I went out in the murk and drove through the fog to get there.

One of my favorite baristas made my drink. When he leaned out the window to give it to me, he asked if I’d gotten everything I wanted for Christmas.

There was only one thing I wanted for Christmas, and it was impossible. So I just said, “I really didn’t want anything this year.”

This barista was one who knew about Michael, from the accident on. He and another favorite came to the Celebration of Life ceremony. They brought me my drink, which was one of the few things that got me through that day.

“Would you like a gift card from here?” he asked. “My gift to you.”

It may have been murky, but I still lit up.

What I wanted for Christmas, which would have been to rewind this year to January 17^th, to call Michael right before he left work, so he’d leave late and enter that crosswalk five minutes later, would have been a miracle. A big one.

But miracles happen in all sizes.

Making me light up in the middle of the murkiest day, in the middle day between two hard days, in the fog of this year…Miracle.

Thank you, Sammy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Actually, I’m going to take the day off today. I am surrounded by most of my family, and the Moment is simply that they are here.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

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

Christmas Eve. 2024.

One of the things Olivia and I have talked a lot about is how the days around a big event, like a holiday, or a moment that was completely unexpected, are harder than the actual holidays. I’ve said that I think it’s because we’re braced for the bigger ones. We know Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Michael’s birthday (December 27), and New Year’s Day are going to be hard. So we prepare ourselves.

And they are hard. But we’re braced.

Still, today, Christmas Eve, is hitting me really hard. I drove to the grocery store to pick up last minute things, started to sing along with “My Grown-Up Christmas List”, sung by Natalie Cole, and then had to pull over because I couldn’t see through the tears. The words that got to me: “No more lives torn apart,” and “that time will heal all hearts,” and “love will never end.”

My life has been torn apart. My heart is not yet healed. And love has, in a sense, ended. I’m a “widow” now.

So I’ve decided to step back from watching for a Moment today, and instead let that Moment be the memories I’ve being flooded with.

When I left and then divorced my first husband, Christmas Eve was the hardest day of the year, because he got our three kids on Christmas Eve. For the first years, we tried to celebrate Christmas day together, alternating homes, but that ended. When Michael moved in with me, and then we got married, he was very aware of this Christmas Eve sadness and he bustled around, helping to get our own traditions started. We wrapped presents together on Christmas Eve. He baked cookies. I made garibaldis for our Christmas Eve dinner. He came up with a new drink to try every midnight. We watched the made-for-tv movie, “The Homecoming” that created the tv show, The Waltons, and he didn’t tease me mercilessly about it, the way my first husband did. Though Michael did correct, every blasted year, the timing. In one scene, the Waltons family is listening to Fibber McGee and Molly (George Burns and Gracie Allen) on the radio, and Michael knew the radio episode, of course. He would sputter that they couldn’t be listening to that episode because it hadn’t aired yet.

Like grief, I braced myself for his rant every year, and got through it.

After the presents were placed under the tree, Michael made our newest drink and then we’d open our stockings together. Mine always had Junior Mints and Sno-Caps. I don’t know where he got the idea that I liked Sno-Caps, but I don’t. The little white pebbley things are annoying. But I never told him. He always got Circus Peanuts. We closed the evening by giving the pets their presents.

After Olivia was born, I had a little one to share Christmas Eve with again, but I still missed my big kids. We expanded our traditions to include going to a drive-thru Christmas light show here in Waukesha. We went as late as possible so that Olivia, as a child, wouldn’t have long to go to bed after we got home. The light show included an indoor electric train display, and Olivia was fascinated. There was a particular little red train car, that ran all on its own, that she loved. She’s 24 years old now, and when we go tonight, she will look for her little train car. I’d like to find it to give to her, but I haven’t been able to figure out what it is. And maybe that would take away the wonder of seeing it year after year.

Though we’re always braced for the year it’s not there.

We always asked someone to take our photo as we sat in whatever photo-op setting they had.

It was wonderful.

We didn’t know, of course, that last year would be our last year of being together. Of sharing the day and evening together, and then welcoming everyone else in the family on Christmas morning. First, the big kids. And then spouses, when some of the big kids got married. And then a grandchild.

But always, always, the cookies, the garibaldis, wrapping presents, driving through the Christmas lights, looking for the little red car, “The Homecoming”, opening stockings, and my exclaiming over Sno-Caps.

This year will be different.

Nobody is baking cookies, though my son is bringing some from the grocery store. I am not making garibaldis. I asked Olivia what she would like, and we are having chicken patty sandwiches and French fries. After I’m done writing this blog, I will be heading downstairs to wrap presents, by myself while I wrap Olivia’s, and then she will join me for the rest. We will go to the light show, with her sitting in the front seat for the first time. We will go in to the train building and look for the little red car. Please let it be there. I don’t know if we’ll do a photo. I will watch “The Homecoming”, and she might join me.

I hung everyone else’s stockings this year, but I did not hang up Michael’s. And I didn’t hang mine.

And so my Moment today?

Thank God for memories. Thank God for twenty-five years of marriage and twenty-seven Christmases together. Thank God for seeing the same lights over and over and still loving them, for watching a made-for-tv movie that I can recite all the lines to, and after a while, so could the man sitting beside me, even with his rant, and thank God for uneaten Sno-Caps.

As I walk through the new, it will be the old that gets me through. The old and well-loved and treasured.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Merry Christmas, Michael. I miss you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

As of this past Saturday at 1:00 p.m., I am officially on Christmas break until January 6^th. I normally only take off the week between Christmas and New Year’s, but with those days being on Wednesday this year, it seemed odd to work on those little dangling days that weren’t part of that week. I’m the boss, so I gave myself the full two weeks.

But it didn’t really feel like my break started until today. Today is Monday, and normally, I would have six clients and a class.

Today, I just had me.

I decided to try very hard this time to have a break like what I give myself when I go to the Oregon coast. That doesn’t usually happen with my breaks at home, as there are still distractions. And of course, I have Christmas Eve tomorrow and then Christmas day, and that won’t be like Oregon at all. But at home, I almost always have breakfast at my desk, while going through email.

Today, I pretended there was an ocean right outside my door.

I got up, threw on my old ratty pajamas, and went downstairs. Before fixing breakfast, I had to take the dog out – not an Oregon thing to do – and of course, just as I opened my garage door, one of my neighbors was pulling out of the parking lot. She waved at me gaily as I stood there in my ratty pajamas and bedhead. A sight I’m sure she won’t forget soon.

Then I gave the dog her medicine, also not an Oregon thing. Finally, I settled down in my recliner with my breakfast and a good hot cup of coffee. The fireplace was on. I had a good book. I breathed out a sigh of relief.

Oregon doesn’t have a recliner. It has a wood stove, which I’ve always been too scared to use. I was content, even without an ocean.

I actually managed to drink my whole cup of coffee before it got cold. On a normal day, I would have to reheat it several times, and then finally give up and throw the rest away. I tend to be optimistic in the morning (really!) and fill my cup to the brim, determined to be able to drink it, even though that rarely happens. But today, I warmed my hands around my mug. My fingers did not need to be on the keyboard. Email could wait.

My coffee was in my favorite mug, one that I’ve used for years. It was a gift from my daughter Katie, who was living in Florida at the time. It’s a big heavy mug, artisan-made, with a mermaid on it. I have a thing about mermaids. And I have a thing about her, as I have a thing about all my kids. Every morning, when I use it, I think of her. I miss her a lot (she lives in Louisiana), especially at Christmas, and especially right now, this year.

In the last year, I received another mug, from my daughter-by-proxy Rayne. It’s from Starbucks, but a Starbucks in London. It has Big Ben on it, which I really, really want to see and touch and hear. It also is a big heavy mug, and when I received it, I began to alternate it with my mermaid. Then, when I was in Oregon this year, I wrote about my favorite mug from that kitchen, which has a big blue fish on it. It’s the only mug I use while I’m there, and I’ve been going there since 2006, even though there’s an entire cabinet full. This year, a student traced the photo I took and found me another mug exactly like it for sale in New York City. Imagine. By the time I got home, it was waiting for me on my counter – a bit of Oregon to enjoy year round. So that one was added into the cycle too.

But in the last week or so…I’ve returned to just pulling the mermaid out of the dishwasher, if that’s where she is. Holding the mug in both hands. Missing my daughter. I have been feeling such a pull to have all of my family together, in one room. Before they are missing, before I am missing. If there’s anything Michael’s experience has taught me, it’s that reality of “here one minute, gone the next.”

I seem to be in a missing season.

There is a novel by Elizabeth Berg, called The Pull Of The Moon. It’s an earlier book, but my favorite of all of hers. And there is a line in it, near the beginning, which has just been following me wherever I go.

The time of losses is upon me.

Oh, yes. And I just ache.

But this morning, as I sat there, well…I just sat there. Holding my coffee. Warming my hands. Looking at the fireplace. My book at the ready on one side, brown sugar cinnamon Pop Tarts, also warm, on the other side. It wasn’t long before I was joined by two orange cats, who were delighted to see me in my recliner at that time of day. One sat behind my head, on the back of my seat, and the other sat on the console, between me and Michael’s empty recliner. The dog was at my feet.

At first, I kept thinking of things I could be doing. I needed to run to the Park & Rec office, to rent a special space for the AllWriters’ 20^th birthday celebration (the space is where I taught for the first time). I wanted to work on both of the books I’m writing, one in poetry, one a novel. My bed needed to be made, my laundry put away. There was a message on the studio voicemail from a long-ago client who wants to return to coaching. “I miss you, Kathie,” she said. I needed to call her back.

I understand missing.

The condo was quiet. Other than the pets, I was the only one there. I didn’t have the television on. My phone was on silent. If there were notifications coming on my computer, that was upstairs, and I didn’t hear anything.

Just quiet. I’ve needed quiet lately.

My list of what I wanted to get done trailed through my head, and then petered out. I pictured an ellipsis.

And then I said, “No.”

And I closed my eyes.

And rested.

Because I could. (I’m the boss.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

As I said before, this is the season of deliveries at your door. For me, they’re mostly deliveries from online shopping, buying presents for others. Today, I received one that was for me, in a package and from a place that I didn’t recognize. Turned out it was for me – and it was from me.  I’d forgotten that I’d ordered it.

Olivia came upstairs from taking the dog out to tell me there was a package. When I asked her who it was from, she gave me the name of a company I didn’t recognize. I told her to bring it up. It was large and poofy, like a pillow in an envelope. It was, of course, impossible to open, so I had to attack it – carefully – with scissors, since I didn’t know what was inside.

As I pulled the plastic away, I saw a lovely royal blue, and then blazing white words:

KEEP GOING;

Well, that’s what I’ve been trying to do, isn’t it. I laughed out loud and pulled the hoodie the rest of the way out. That’s when I remembered ordering it. I did order it for myself, but in a sense, I also ordered it for others.

It’s a hoodie to encourage those around you, from familiar to strangers, who may be thinking it’s just not worth it to go on. On the front of the shirt is the message to keep going. On the back, a list of 100 reasons to stay alive. On each sleeve, facing out so that those around you can read it, it says, “You are needed. You are not a burden. You are loved.” I absolutely loved the idea that I could be encouraging someone without even knowing I was doing so, and so I ordered one.

But the first person this shirt talked to was me. One step in front of the other. Acclimating to this new way of life. Keep going.

But it also went deeper.

Two books ago, my novel Hope Always Rises was published. I wrote it to bring out a different perspective on those who choose to end their lives. To do this, I ripped first into the idea that suicide is a “mortal sin”, which is defined as “in Christian theology, particularly within Catholicism, is a gravely serious act that is considered a deliberate and conscious turning away from God, causing a complete separation from God’s grace and potentially leading to damnation if not repented before death.” With suicide, of course, this means that the person dies, so does not repent before death, and as such is forever cut away from God.

In Hope Always Rises, there is a special gated community in Heaven that is just for those who have chosen to end their lives. In my book, God does indeed forgive. And in my book, there is no Hell. God welcomes everyone.

To write the book, I had to dive deep into research on the subject. But I already had a lot of knowledge and experience, through friends choosing to go this route, and through my own personal experience. I decided to write the book after overhearing a conversation in a coffee shop, where two women were talking about someone they actually called “a friend” who had made this choice. They shredded her. “How could she do this?” they charged. “How could she do this to her children? To her husband?” I stood up and turned and said, “You’re asking the right question. How could she do this? But you might want to think about how she could do this to herself. What kind of pain must she have been in to have this seem like the correct path?” And then I walked out. And wrote the book.

I was asked recently, at the launch of my newest novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, which of my books was my favorite. I used to answer that whichever one I’m working on is my favorite. But now, I have to admit, it’s Hope. I wrote my heart out in that book. In J.D. Salinger’s novella, Seymour; An Introduction, Seymour writes to his brother, Buddy Glass, who is a writer, and he tells Buddy what people will ask when he dies. “I’m so sure you’ll only get asked two questions. Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?” In Hope, every star was out.

This is all connected because recently, there was a review of Hope which was not very nice. I normally pay little to no attention to reviews, and I despise the importance publishers place on them now, pushing writers to weigh their worth on something external, something outside their control, as opposed to putting their worth on the internal, on their work…on their stars. Instead of asking ourselves, Are most of my stars out? while writing the piece, we are told to focus on the stars on websites.

What matters is what we write and how we write it.

This not nice reviewer didn’t like the book because…well, do you suppose it was because it was poorly written? Because the characters didn’t feel real? Because no emotion was conveyed? No. She didn’t like the book because the way I presented God and Heaven wasn’t the way she saw it. And yet, it’s very clear on the book’s description what kind of character God is, and what Heaven is like. She knew she wasn’t going to agree with it before she even read the book. She bought the book so she could bash it.

I think, because of the events of this year, I am probably a little more vulnerable than I usually am. And so this review really hit me, not because she attacked my writing, because she didn’t. She attacked the idea of the book. It didn’t matter how it was written. To her, she didn’t like the idea, so she hated the book.

And so I’ve stepped away from my creative work again for a bit. As I said, I think I’ve been more vulnerable.

But then today, I open the package and read, “KEEP GOING;”.

And you know who told me to do that? ME. I bought the damn shirt. So I could reach out to help other people. Which is why I wrote Hope Always Rises.

But instead I sent a message to myself.

Keep going.

Of course I will. Despite the news, whatever the news brings me every day. Hope Always Rises.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

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

An odd one today, with several layers.

First, you need to learn about my relationship with a billboard and a guy named Craig.

I live right across the street from the Waukesha Metro, which is a combination parking garage and bus terminal. Consequently, a lot of buses go by my home. Livvy, as a little girl when we first moved here, would stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows in our living room and wave at all the buses going by. The bus drivers began to wave back. Michael was also a daily rider of the buses, to get to and from work. He was walking to catch his bus home when he was struck by the passenger van.

So buses are a part of my daily life. And so is one particular bus-size advertisement. It’s for a well-known jewelry store, and the advertisement shows the owner’s face with a big friendly grin as he’s holding out what appears to be a diamond the size of a softball. His name is Craig Husar,  and his store bears his name.

I see his face many times every day, and over time, I began to say, “Hi, Craig,” whenever he passed. But the face appearances expanded. Whenever I’m out driving somewhere, I’d see a bus, and on that bus, Craig. So I’d say, “Hi, Craig.” When Michael was still alive, he would point at the buses and say, “Look, there’s your good buddy, Craig,” and we would both wave. Craig is also on billboards, and so I say hello to him there too.

Now if you read my blog regularly, you know that one of the things that bothered me so much after the accident was Michael’s missing wedding ring. As I was handed all of Michael’s things in the emergency room, I asked where his wedding ring was. They said he hadn’t come in with one. This made no sense because Michael always wore his wedding ring.

As the days, then weeks, passed, I had the hospital double-check the ER and the lost and found. I hounded the ambulance company and the police department. But no ring showed up. A couple months before the accident, Michael had carpal and cubital tunnel surgery, and so he took his ring off. I didn’t drive him that day, Olivia did, and so I worried that Michael took his ring off at the surgery center and didn’t get it back. When Michael became cognizant after the accident, I asked him about the ring, but he didn’t remember the surgery and he didn’t know where his ring was. After he died, I threw myself into reorganizing my kitchen, which I now recognize was a way that I was trying to gain control over my suddenly out of control life. In a drawer that holds our ladles and big spoons, way in the back corner, I found Michael’s ring. That drawer is under the segment of the kitchen counter that was designated as Michael’s. He must have set it in there to make sure it didn’t fall off the counter.

I, of course, promptly burst into tears when I found the ring. Since then, I’ve worn both Michael’s and my rings on my ring finger.

In recent weeks, I began to ponder the rings. I’ve had a few experiences now where I’ve filled out forms, asking for my marital status. I had to choose between married, single, or widowed. I didn’t feel single. I don’t want to be widowed. I felt married. But in legal terms, that is no longer what I am. I am no longer married.

So I checked widowed, and hated it.

But I began to look more and more at the wedding rings. And I thought more and more about how, through no choice of my own, I’ve been moved into a new phase of my life. There is a lot of emphasis, of course, in literature about losing a spouse, on moving on. I don’t like that phrase at all. It’s like I said yesterday in response to a student hoping I would find joy. I’m really not looking for joy, and I don’t think it’s about moving on. It’s about finding peace, and also finding acceptance in where I am now. While Michael isn’t physically in my life anymore, our lives will always be intertwined. The wedding rings represent those twenty-five years we were married. And now…I needed them to represent our new relationship. Our history and our relationship connects us, as does our daughter. But Michael is no longer present. I am alone.

And so I began to wonder about taking the wedding rings and making them one ring. I thought at first about having them soldered together. But I began to think more about having the two rings recreated into a new ring, a blend of the two of us. I am blended with Michael, even as I step into this new life, on my own.

So I began to wonder how I could find a designer for this new ring.

I thought about this last week as I was waiting for my coffee to finish reheating in the microwave. It was snowing, and so I stood by our windows and looked out, admiring the prettiness as I pondered this whole issue. And a bus went by. So did Craig Husar’s face. “Hi, Craig,” I said automatically.

And then I thought, Craig!

A quick search on the internet showed me that Craig’s jewelry store indeed did custom design. So today, I showed up in the store.

Shortly after arriving, I was introduced to Becca, Craig’s daughter, who designs jewelry.

I told her Michael’s whole story, my whole story, and why I felt I needed to make these two rings into one, to represent Michael always being a part of me, but also, my being on my own in a new life. A new chapter. I also want to wear the new ring on my right hand, not my left, leaving the ring finger on my left hand bare.

When you are a writer, you think in symbols, donchaknow.

I also told her to be sure to tell her father that I say hello to him several times a day.

And Becca understood. Looking at the two wedding rings, she picked up details from their design, including what made us pick out these rings to begin with. On either side of the channel of diamonds, there is a gold braid. And she began to braid and to blend. Blend. There’s that word again.

She came up with a beautiful design, using the diamonds from both of our rings, and the gold and metal from the rings themselves. That’s exactly what I wanted.

She left me for a moment, to figure out the pricing and such, and when she came back, she was accompanied by a man.

I recognized that grin immediately.

Craig Husar sat down next to me, introduced himself, and shared his condolences. He told me I’d come to the right place, and there was no one better to create this ring than his daughter. As we talked, he said, “You know, there’s a real warmth and energy here. I think your husband is in full agreement with what you’re doing.”

I’d been feeling it since I entered the store.

“Hey,” Michael said over and over, “there’s your good buddy, Craig.”

And Craig and his daughter are helping me with my next steps now.

I came home with a bare finger, which feels very strange. But I also came home with another piece of the peace I’m looking for.

Amazing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I can’t say what came over me at 3:00 this morning.

We were in the middle of a snowstorm. It started in the early afternoon, then built up power, and by this time of the morning in a new day, the snow took up all the air between the sky and the ground.

I was exhausted. I’d fallen behind somehow this week, and so I had all of my Friday clients to read, starting when I finished with Thursday clients at 9:00 at night. I read through midnight, into the morning, and finally finished at 3:00. My first client was six hours away.

Throughout the night, as I read, I glanced outside, noting the snow. I was glad I wasn’t out in it. When I finally shut down my computer, all I wanted to do was stagger into bed. But there was Ursula, my dog, to take outside first. It doesn’t matter what time I go to bed; she knows that she is taken out before my head hits the pillow.

So we went out.

Ursula looked around at the newly white world and ventured out further than usual. We stood in the middle of the city parking lot, now a white field, with no cars. That snow that filled the air between sky and earth fell all around us. I remembered catching snowflakes on my tongue when I was a little girl, and I nearly stuck my tongue out to try it again. But then I remembered one time when my mother caught me scooping up fresh white snow with my mittens and eating it like a true-to-life sno-cone. I did it then because I’d just read a Bobbsey Twins book where the kids, brothers and sisters, two sets of twins, Bert and Nan, Freddie and Flossie, filled a bucket with new snow. Their mother helped them add flavoring to it, I don’t remember what kind, and they stirred it and then ate it. They called it snow ice cream. I wanted some.

My mother was horrified. She filled a clear glass with snow, then brought it inside, where she insisted I watch it melt. She pointed out all the flecks in the snow, and told me that was what I’d just eaten. I never ate snow again, and so I didn’t stick my tongue out now.

Though I wanted to. To taste the snow as I thought it was then, and as I wished it could be now.

Ursula, however, apparently had no such memory, and she stuck her head in the snow up to her ears. She came out with a polar bear head and I laughed, but quietly, because it was three in the morning.

Sometimes, even cities get quiet. It was quiet enough that I could hear the snow falling. The flakes swirling around me, I felt like I was in a star storm, and I thought how wonderful that would be.

I took a deep breath and let the chill air come into me, as well as around me. For that moment, everything stopped and it was just…quiet. And so pretty.

The Christmas greetings I’ve received this year have been very different. All tinted with a bit of sadness, a bit of compassion, and a lot of support. One person said, “Have a Christmas!”, acknowledging that it’s not likely to be merry. Most have confirmed that they know that this is a hard holiday this year, but wishing me some happiness. A student emailed me and said, “I know this is a difficult time, but I hope you find some joy.”

But it’s not really joy that I’m looking for. It’s peace, which is also supposed to be a hallmark of this season. But I’m not looking for peace on earth either. Peace of mind, of my mind, that’s what my wish is for this Christmas, and for the new year.

Standing there in the snow with my dog, the rest of the world asleep, the city quiet, the snow like stars around me, I had it. Peace. For that moment.

Before I turned to go in, I looked at Ursula and smiled. She gave me a doggie smile back. Then I reached down, scooped up a mitten-full of the whitest, purest snow, and I ate it, spinning myself backwards to that little girl that I was, looking for ice cream falling from heaven. Before I found out that things aren’t always what they seem.

As I truly know now.

But standing there in that Moment, grinning dog by my side, snow melting down my throat, more snow settling on my sleeves, my shoulders, sparkling in my hair, quietness all around as if there was nothing loud in my life, there was peace.

Hanging on to it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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.