Author: Kathie

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

One wouldn’t think that a Moment of Happiness would come from picking up your dead cat’s ashes, but then, I don’t think Moments are predictable. If there’s ever a time to expect the unexpected, it’s with Moments of Happiness.

So my cat Cleo has been gone for two weeks now. You know, I’ve had a cat die at 20 years of age, 18 years, 17 years, 14 years, 8 years…and now 2 years. Not in that order, by the way. The order would be 18 years, 17 years, 8 years, 14 years, 20 years, and 2 years. I’m finding they’re all hard…but Cleo’s death at 2 years just feels profoundly unfair. For her, and for me and my family. Including our cat Oliver.

No death is unexpected. We all know it’s coming, for us and those around us. But at 2 years of age? Ridiculous.

Cleo came home with me when she was 12 weeks old. She was the easiest new cat transition I ever had. She walked in, said hello to Oliver, who was six months older than she was, and made herself at home. She and Oliver were fast friends by the end of that day, sleeping together at the foot of my bed. Their no-limits energy and ability to get in trouble made me dub them The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers. Oliver was an orange tabby with short hair. Cleo was an orange tabby with long hair. Oliver could be shy; Cleo was never shy. But together, they were fearless. And happy.

Cleo’s hair was pervasive. Magical. It was there, even when she wasn’t. Every night, when I was done with work, I took a cloth for wiping down laptops, wiped all the Cleo hair (and some Oliver hair) off my keyboard and screen, and shut the lid for overnight protection. Cleo spent the night with me, curled at the bottom of my bed. In the morning, I got up, lifted the lid of my laptop, and found Cleo’s hair scattered over every letter.

When I asked her how, this happened, she just flicked her tail and smiled.

If I picked up a pen, a fork, a piece of paper, a muffin, I’d have to pull off a Cleo hair. There were Cleo hairs in my car, my closet, my shoes, and I even found one on a brand new roll of toilet paper.

Flick. Smile.

Two weeks ago, Cleo spent all day at the emergency vet. Overnight, she went from her normal active self to sprawled on the floor with no interest in food, water, playing, or Oliver. The emergency vet said she had fluid around her lungs and around her kidneys. They were suspicious of a nodule in her lungs. Ultimately, they sent us home with anti-nausea medicine, Gabapentin for the pain, and an appetite stimulant, and orders to bring her for a follow-up with her regular vet.

That was a Thursday. On the following Tuesday, Olivia and I brought her in for her follow-up. She still hadn’t eaten, and never voluntarily drank. I resorted to using a syringe to put water down her throat every hour, and I also added chicken broth, in the hope of revving up her appetite. She moved slowly around the house. It wasn’t until after her death that I realized she was visiting all of her favorite spots one more time. When the vet came in to see her, we found that Cleo’s temperature was dropping. She was cold. And despite not eating, she’d gained 2 pounds, all in fluid. She sprawled on the table, not even able to pull her legs under her.

The vet thought it was Feline Infectious Peritonitis. Because Cleo had Feline Leukemia, she was more prone to illnesses and disease. One led to the other.

I explained to Olivia that we had to let Cleo go. It’s been a rough two years, with our cat Edgar (14 years) dying in February 2024, our cat Muse (20 years) dying in April 2024, Michael dying in June 2024, our dog Ursula dying in September 2025. And now Cleo. At 2 years old.

The vet additionally explained to Olivia that Cleo was very sick and she was suffering, and there really wasn’t any hope. I told Livvy that I trust our vet.

She administered the sedative in preparation for the final injection. But before we even got that injection, Cleo started leaving us. She was gone a few minutes later.

I am very tired of grief and of being sad.

I arranged to have Cleo cremated and wondered that night just what would happen to all of these little urns of ashes I’ve accumulated over the years. In all, I have ten. Jake, Einstein, Corny, Cocoa, Blossom, Penny, Donnie, Edgar, Muse, and now Cleo.

And of course, Michael.

Yesterday, I got the phone call that Cleo was ready to come home. I picked her up. Her ashes are in a pretty little wooden box. I was also given another package, which was wrapped in a cardboard sleeve. I carefully slid a small black box out. There was a lid that clicked tightly shut. I opened it slowly.

Inside was Cleo’s big pawprint, pressed into a mold and sealed with a clear plastic cover.

And…a scattering of Cleo hair. Not inside the plastic cover. On the outside. Like the magical hair that appeared under the laptop cover.

I laughed out loud. “How?” I said. “How do you do this, Cleo?”

Wherever she is, I’m sure she looked at me, flicked her tail, and smiled.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news…one day late. Longer than normal too.

Lordy. I said I would write this today, since I ran out of time yesterday, and I am. At 7:30 at night. And I’m just eating lunch now.

That should give you an idea of what my week has been like. Part of the busy is a new cat in my family. An 11-month old black and white female nervous tornado named Poe (not named by us, but by the animal rescuer who found her and her siblings, brought them to a cat rescue, who in turn brought them to Elmbrook Humane Society, the only humane society in my area that tests the cats for feline leukemia before they place them). Michael’s favorite non-living author was Edgar Allen Poe, which was why our cat Edgar’s whole name was Edgar Allen Paw. Seeing a cat named Poe, who also had the restriction of only being available for adoption to someone who already had a cat in the house, and our having Oliver, who was lonely and missing Cleo, well, it seemed like a huge arrow darted out of the sky and said, THIS ONE! So far, she absolutely adores Oliver. She’s not so sure about me or Livvy. We’ve had her since last Monday, and neither of us has managed to pet her yet. She has sniffed my fingers, and she will come to Oliver when he’s leaning against my legs, so we’re making progress. But she’s a super-hider, and so quite a bit of time has been spent on fruitless searches. Whew.

There’s also the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat to prepare for, coming up on July 16 – 19, and the venue let me know last Friday that our usual gathering room is now being used as an exercise room, but “we have plenty of space for you.” When I emailed back questioning this, I received an automatic reply, stating that the person was out of the office until after the 4^th of July.

Sigh.

BUT – yes, there was still a Moment. A couple of them, in fact.

I’m going to talk about dreams. There are two kinds, really. The kind of dream you have when you’re conscious, and you’re dreaming of goals you’d like to achieve. And there’s the dream you have when you’re sleeping, so you’re not really conscious, and you’re surely not in control. Both of these types of dreams gave me Moments this week.

So the conscious one first. Way back in 1987, when I was publishing short stories and becoming known as a short story writer, but no book yet, I read author Tim Sandlin’s first novel, Sex And Sunsets, and promptly fell in love with him. In his third novel, Skipped Parts, he included a note to readers, saying if you wrote him about the book, he would send you a picture postcard of the Tetons (he lived in Wyoming) with a note from him. I did, and he did, and we struck up a dialogue that lasted until his death last March, soon after the release of his final novel, Lit.

In that original postcard, which I still have, Tim wrote, “Dear Kathie, This is actually a picture of the Gros Ventres, but you can see the Tetons if the photographer turned around. Most of my female readers (at least the ones I hear from) think I’m one of the only males who understands them. Or at least tries to. I’m accused by critics of being a feminist. One female reviewer said any man who writes from the viewpoint of a woman is a rapist – so I didn’t please her, but for the most part, women aren’t offended. At least not enough to tell me. Writing is hard enough work. If you tell what you see as the truth, you can’t worry about who you offend. Good luck in your writing. I’ll look for your name.”

I’d written to him about my penchant of writing about difficult subjects. I have held his words, “If you tell what you see as the truth, you can’t worry about who you offend,” close to my chest ever since then. Tim apparently kept my name close too, because he did watch for me, and I always had a message from him after one of my books appeared.

Tim went on to start the Jackson Hole Writers Conference, growing it from a modest meeting of local authors to a highly successful and premier literary gathering. He led it for over three decades, and the event will celebrate its 35^th anniversary this year.

To say I’ve wanted to be a presenter at this conference is an understatement. It’s been my goal since it started. But I never felt comfortable asking Tim about it, because I felt that was taking advantage of our relationship.

Well, as you’ve probably guessed…I’m going to be at the Jackson Hole Writers Conference in 2027. I met last Monday with the current director, via Zoom. He’d heard of me through Tim, and also through one of my very enthusiastic students who lives out there. He’d told me that the 2026 event was already booked, so I wasn’t sure why he wanted to talk now. But partway through, he suddenly said, “How’d you like to be a presenter in 2027?”

Ohmygod.

Goal achieved. Dream achieved. And I’ll get to stand where Tim stood, and speak where he spoke, and I’ll get to see the area he loved so much. If you’re talking to me and I suddenly burst out into the silliest of grins, it’s because I’m thinking of Jackson Hole and 2027.

And then a sleeping dream. I was extremely puzzled a few mornings ago when I woke up after a weird dream. I was sitting at the AllWriters’ classroom table, and in front of me, I had a huge pile of stuffed rabbits. Specific rabbits…they were all, I knew, the Velveteen Rabbit, from the children’s book of the same name, by Margery Williams, originally published in 1921. I was cutting out red velvet hearts and amazingly sewing them onto the backs of these stuffed rabbits (I don’t sew. I am famous for stapling my oldest daughter’s Brownie and Girl Scout badges to her sash.). Once sewn on, the red hearts looked like angel wings on the rabbits, if you looked at the rabbits straight on. In the dream, Olivia came into the room, looked at all the rabbits, and asked me what I was doing. “I’m remembering your father,” I said. And then I woke up.

Remembering Michael? As far as I know, there is no connection between Michael and rabbits. He never liked rodents, including Mickey Mouse, even though he grew up in Florida. When Michael and I first got together, two of my kids had guinea pigs…and Michael couldn’t bring himself to touch them.

So I thought about this for a few days. I’ve wondered, of course, if some of the things I’ve experienced since Michael’s death were real. I want them to be, of course. I’ve also been very conscious of not wanting to turn Michael into a saint. He wasn’t, and I’m not, and our marriage wasn’t perfect. A lot of the reviews of The Birth Of A Widow have brought up the intense love that I express in the poems. In the most recent review, by a lovely woman named Nicole Pyles who took part in the blog tour of Widow, she said, “Her poems and some essays reflect the complexities of grief, memory, loss, and, most of all, love.”

Love. Now I have to tell you, one of the unexpected aspects of grief is the rise of the question of reality. Am I remembering Michael accurately? Did we have a wonderful, imperfect marriage? Am I missing the real person, or just the role of being a wife and having a husband?

The mind works in really, really weird ways. Add being a writer to that, and well, it can get messy in my brain.

So, The Velveteen Rabbit. The main storyline of the book is that an old, beloved stuffed animal, the Velveteen Rabbit, wants to become real. And he thinks he can become real through the love of the child, who is now grown. This is the line from The Velveteen Rabbit that I remember the most. I once took a photo of all the beloved stuffed animals from my childhood, sitting on a bench in my bedroom. When I had the photo printed, I framed it with this quote beneath it:

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

And now, here I was, in my dream, attaching hearts like wings to Velveteen Rabbits, and wondering about reality.

I loved Michael, I still do, and Michael loved me. Most everything that I’ve accomplished has happened since I met and married Michael. I was no longer squashed, cut down, made to feel less than. I was loved, I was respected, I was believed in. I became me. I became Real. And Michael became Real too. Our love for each other was Real, because we weren’t perfect. We didn’t just play. Even through the hard parts, even when those hard parts were our relationship, or one of us, we still loved, and we still stayed together.

Real.

I need to find a Velveteen Rabbit. And then I will staple a red velvet heart to its back.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Hey, all – I am caught up in a whirlwind of work, and I wouldn’t be able to get to writing This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, until 8:00 tonight. Which is crazy. So I’m just going to write and post it tomorrow.

Check back in tomorrow!

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

Hooboy.

So last week, I didn’t post. I’d spent all day at the emergency vet clinic with my cat, Cleocatra (Cleo), who was suddenly very, very ill. She was her normal self on Monday, but when I got up on Tuesday, she was flat out on the floor.

Cleo had Feline Leukemia. I didn’t know this on the day I adopted her, when she was just 12 weeks old. The humane society I adopted her from didn’t test their cats – and I didn’t know that. When I brought her in for her first vet appointment a few weeks later, I found out. My vet gently suggested I return her, but by then, we were bonded, and there was just no way.

Feline Leukemia causes a weakened immune system. The average lifespan after diagnosis is 2 years. Cleo turned 2 years old in April.

What followed was a week from hell, which culminated in a visit to my vet. Cleo’s body was shutting down. She was actually in death throes on the table, my arms circled around her, as the vet gave her the injection.

To say I’m devastated is an understatement. Cleo and Oliver, who I dubbed The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers, helped me so much through the last two years. Oliver was adopted shortly before Michael’s death, Cleo shortly after.

This isn’t, as they say, my first rodeo. On the top shelf of my closet, there are several versions of urns, and behind my desk, on a bookshelf, there are urns for the three pets who died in 2024 and 2025, two before Michael, one after.

The cats are:

Jake

Einstein

Cornelius (Corny)

Muse

Edgar Allen Paw

The dogs are:

Cocoa

Blossom

Penny

Donnie

Ursula

And of course, in my living room, on my piano, is the urn that holds Michael.

When I was born and brought home from the hospital, there was a dog named Cindy. When I was eight years old, a cat entered my life, named Spooky. There has always been at least one animal under my roof and in my family. I put myself through college by working at a local humane society (the one I adopted Cleo from). My first published articles were in the official magazine of the Humane Society of the United States, and in their magazine for kids, called KIND (Kindness In Nature’s Defense).

Out to dinner one night during a college break, my father looked at me and said, “I hope a day comes when you love people as much as you love animals.” I remember my jaw dropped. To me, there was no difference in the amount of love I extended to people and animals. There was no “loving more”. There was only love.

Since Michael was struck by the passenger van on January 17, 2024, it seems like my life has been shrouded in loss. In death. In February 2024, Edgar Allen Paw, then 14 years old, died. In April 2024, one day after her 21^st birthday, Muse died. Michael died in June 2024. In August 2025, my grandcat Alfadore died. In September 2025, my dog Ursula, approximately 11 years old, went blind overnight, and then died. The day before Thanksgiving, 2025, my great friend Leslie died on the operating table.

And now…Cleo. Only 2 years old.

It is also an understatement to say that I am sick of death. That I am overwhelmed with grief. And that I am starting to watch everyone, animal or human, with a sense of fear over the possibility of their being lost too.

It’s not a fun way to live. Especially for someone who loves basically everybody.

It’s hard to find a Moment of Happiness in all this. But I am trying.

Last night, as I was in bed, trying to sleep, and wondering what the hell I was going to write about today, my cat Oliver joined me. Since Michael died, Oliver waits until I go to bed, and then he comes to stretch himself out on Michael’s pillow, right beside me. He purrs, and I sleep. Cleo used to do this too, if I woke during the night. It was like it was Oliver’s job to help me go to sleep in the first place, and it was Cleo’s job to help me back to sleep.

Now Oliver does it all.

But as I lay there last night, Oliver reached out a paw and put it on my hand. I put my other hand on top of his paw, and then he put his head down on us both. And he purred.

Oliver is, of course, grieving too.

We both slept.

I have been incredibly lucky to have so many special animals and special people in my life. Because of that, I am also incredibly lucky to love so hard that I grieve just as hard. For some, this amount of loss would mean a withdrawal, a pulling back, a refusal to become close to anyone else ever again.

Not me.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This is going to be a weird one. Something that I set into motion, thinking it was something I wanted, didn’t go through…and made me even happier when it didn’t. So hang with me.

Ever since Michael died, I’ve ruminated over whether I want to sell our home and downsize. I live in a 3-story condo, which will, of course, grow to be a challenge as I get older. But…

I’ve lived here for 20 years, longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere. No one else has ever lived in this condo but us; we are original owners.

This condo is the furthest thing from cookie cutter that you can get. The developer wanted this to be full of creatives, and so each condo was left a blank slate inside. Each owner developed their own floor plan. You cannot walk next door or in any of the other condos here and see my place. Everything in these walls is uniquely designed by us, and, for that matter, IS us.

This is a live-where-you-work condo, so my business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, is on the first floor. And again – fully designed by me. For my students.

And above it all…I love it here. Love, love, love it here.

It’s been difficult since Michael died. I do see him in every corner. There are times I wake up and swear he is sleeping next to me. If I am sitting in my recliner and movement attracts my attention through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I sit up and look to see if it’s Michael, crossing the street from the bus depot.

Of course, when I blink, whether beside me in bed, or out the window, or anywhere else, it’s never him. But there is, sometimes, the sense of him.

There are days I am comforted by seeing him. And there are days when it hurts beyond belief.

So I began looking at other places. Because I own and run AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop LLC, it likely would have meant putting the entire business on Zoom, as I did during the pandemic. I would lose my classroom. But I looked. Luckily, I have a realtor who has known me a long time, who is a widow as well, and who has so much patience, she makes a saint look in a hurry. We found several that I liked. Places I could picture where I would put my furniture and at least a good-sized portion of the artwork.

Amazingly, one stickler was always, “Where would I put a litterbox?” And an expected stickler was where I would have my writing space.

So I looked.

Last Friday, I found a condo listed that made my eyes widen. It had a two-car heated garage, a first in all the ones I’d seen, and better than what I have – I only have a one-car garage, and including Livvy’s Beetle, I own 3 cars. This had the garage, and two more spaces on the driveway. It had a fully finished basement, with room for me to continue having a classroom, even though I likely shouldn’t, since it wasn’t zoned for business. It was lovely, though I would be able to walk into a neighbor’s home, or any other one in that particular subdivision, and see my own place with different décor.

But one of the pulls of doing this is that with a smaller place, I would either have no mortgage at all, after the proceeds from my place, or I’d have a much smaller mortgage. With Michael gone, I am dependent on just me. Just me. And the studio.

Scary.

So I sat down with my realtor and with Olivia and I put in an offer. At one point during this, Livvy said to me, “Mom, you’re shaking.”

Yes, I was. But I signed the papers. We wouldn’t know until the next day if our offer was accepted.

We went home and I settled into my recliner. Our kitchen island separates the kitchen from the living room, and I glanced over when one of my cats jumped on the counter. But instead of looking at the cat, I looked directly at the back of the island, which faces out to the living room.

When we moved in, we discovered that the builders had left the back unpainted, unfinished in any way. It was just plywood. And I absolutely hated it.

My daughter Katie was getting her Masters in math in Tallahassee at that time, so little Olivia and I flew down to Florida to spend spring break with her. We were out to dinner when Michael sent me a photo.

He’d bought some lovely copper tiles, which reflected our corrugated copper ceiling. And he’d installed them on the back of the island. All by himself. As a surprise for me.

From my recliner a few evenings ago, I looked at those tiles, and I burst into tears.

I tried to argue myself into the new condo. I said all the practical things. I tried hard. But these are the three things I kept coming back to:

• I do not yet need to move because of physical reasons.
• I do not yet need to move because of financial reasons.
• And…I love this place. I love, love, love this place. It is the most Home I’ve ever had.

I tried to sleep on it. But I didn’t sleep. And early in the morning, I got up and texted my realtor. “Please,” I said, “get me out of this.”

She did.

And I felt a rush of relief that just lit me up inside and out. I was home, I’ve been home, I would stay home. I wanted to hug the entire condo.

This is where I belong.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

A few days ago, someone said something to me that I not only never thought would be said, but I also never imagined it being said.

“Well, Kathie, you sure know how to make lemonade out of lemons.”

Cliché or not, it still made my jaw drop.

I’ve also been told recently, “I am amazed about your resilience and power to snap back to yourself after the world fell apart.”

What?

And finally, one of the writers I asked to read my new novel (release date 2/18/27) and write a cover blurb for it said this in her email, “To write so deeply about grief and not have it feel heavy is miraculous (or maybe it’s just the work of seasoned, talented writer!)”

Me? Really?

Of course, nobody saw me right after my HVAC unit bit the dust on an 89-degree day, just a couple days after my car was totaled in the accident. There were lemons. There was falling into my recliner and staring blankly at the ceiling while tears fell silently down my cheeks and soaked my shirt. And as for miraculous…I don’t even know how to approach that one.

So let me tell you…

In high school, my friends called me by the nickname, “Tombstone”. Why? Because I was always so grave.

My parents called me Sarah Bernhardt and rolled their eyes. For those who don’t know, Sarah Bernhardt was an internationally famous 19th-century French stage actress known for her highly emotional roles, expressive body language, and larger-than-life off-stage persona. I personally prefer to think that I may have been like her because she was flamboyant, scandalous, and didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She flaunted societal norms, did the unexpected, and had high-profile affairs.

But I don’t think my parents meant that.

I wrote about dark subjects, with characters often dying, when I was in high school. My characters generally live now, but the dark subjects remain. When I was in 7^th grade, my parents were called in for a conference because I handed in a short story in my English class. It was about a teenage prostitute who agreed to a gangbang because her mother needed the money. When her mother found out what she did, she freaked, and so my main character ran screaming out of the house and got promptly hit by a bus.

Yeah.

So I’m really not used to seeing myself as positive. Early on in my writing career, I submitted a short story to a literary magazine without reading all of the submission guidelines. The story was returned to me, with a black-markered, all capitals, message on the bottom of the rejection slip. “DON’T EVER SUBMIT HERE AGAIN!” it screamed.

My story was about a woman who was a cutter and went to more and more extreme lengths until she deliberately put herself in a situation where she knew a man would kill her. I looked back at the guidelines.  “Oh,” I said. The magazine wanted literary stories, yes, but they wanted stories with positive endings. I thought about that for a bit, and then shrugged. The woman wanted to die, she died, positive ending.

(And just so you know, that particular story ended up being published in another magazine and anthologized. When I married Michael and my name changed, I returned to the original magazine with literary stories with positive endings. The same editor took every one, and once told me he was always delighted to see a Kathie Giorgio story on his desk. No, I never enlightened him.)

But now…lemonade, resilience, and miracles.

I know exactly where it comes from.

This blog, of course. Or it’s predecessor, really, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, where I challenged myself to write a moment of happiness every day for a year. I defined a moment of happiness, not as a gratitude-type sentiment, but as a moment when I smiled involuntarily. This challenge began in late 2016 and throughout 2017, in a particularly dark period, which I didn’t know would get darker. It started because I was assaulted by a man in a particular red hat, and I made national news. After I started the daily blog, Michael lost his job twice, taking our health insurance with it, Olivia was bullied so badly in school, we had to move her to a new school, and I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

The daily blog taught me a very important thing. You have to look for happiness. You have to notice happiness. If your senses are wide open, and your mind is too, you will find it. You can’t wait for it. You search for it.

I thought 2017 was the darkest year of my life, and that it would remain so. It did earn that ranking, until January 17, 2024, when Michael stepped into the intersection of 6^th and State in Milwaukee, and our world blew apart.

I am so relieved that I didn’t know that 2017 was a training session for 2024, and I’m still in training today.

But those comments I received this week made me smile involuntarily. They make me happy. They are evidence of change and of strength, and always of a mind that is open and ready to receive.

I don’t think I’m a whole new person. I think I’ve always been me, but just perceived differently by others. Which is why I’m still here.

A few weeks ago, when Olivia graduated with her Masters degree, there was a ceremony where each graduate stood and offered thanks to those who helped along the way. By far, my favorite (besides my daughter, of course) was a young woman who got to the microphone, and belted out, “I want to thank ME! I am grateful for ME! I’m grateful for my hard work, my resilience, and I made it!”

I cheered.

And so this week, my moment of happiness is more than a moment. It’s a lifetime. I am so happy I am who I am.

And now I’m going to go be flamboyant and scandalous. I’m going to flaunt societal norms, do the unexpected, and have high-profile affairs.

Well, maybe not all that.

But I will go make some lemonade.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Immersed in a week of multiple offers to bring over a truckload of bubble wrap for me to wear, warnings that I should just stay inside my house and not venture out (“But you have those stairs, Kathie! You have those stairs!”), so really, I’d better just stay in one spot in my home, hopefully in a chair in an otherwise vacant room, and make sure the chair doesn’t have wheels…well, yes, there’s still a bright spot. In fact, there’s a few!

So first off…my car. My poor 2018 Chrysler 300S named Barry. He has been official declared a total loss, and it about killed me to sign the “JUNKED” form today. The car was an absolute mess. The driver who ran the stop sign has been given the dreaded “at fault” condemnation, though from the police report, he tried to say that he did stop, but thought he could get across before I got there, but then, he said, “She accelerated!”

No, I did not accelerate. Please.

I am still incredibly bruised, with more bruises surfacing each day, even today, when it’s been a week and two days. If I was rolled up in bubble wrap, even that would hurt, pressing against me.

To add insult to injury, we suddenly had a heat wave, with our temps climbing to the upper eighties and low nineties for two days. This, after we just had a freeze warning a week ago. And of course, my AC caused trouble. Late at night, I suddenly began to smell bleach. I asked Olivia if she was painting, and she wasn’t, but she smelled it too. I shut the AC off, the smell cleared, and so…today, right now, I have an AC repairman looking at it. The HVAC unit is 20 years old. Sigh…we’ll see.

On Wednesday afternoon, when I walked in to my classroom to teach my workshop, I found a bright red velvet bag by my seat. Inside, a pretty little ornament in red and gold. A horse pranced at the top, and then there was a vertical banner with Chinese symbols on it. “It’s the Year of the Fire Horse,” one of my students said. “This will bring you luck.”

Let’s hope for GOOD luck. I’ve had enough of the other kind.

Later, I looked it up. The Year of the Fire Horse, I read, represents a rare convergence of bold momentum, passion, and transformation. It only happens once every 60 years. It combines the horse’s energetic, independent spirit with the fire element, amplifying traits like ambition, creativity, and a drive for rapid progress.

I could handle that. So I hung it up on my 3^rd floor, an open space that houses my bedroom and my writing space, as well as where I teach when I’m on Zoom.

And then…things happened.

First, right before I went to bed, a Google alert went off on my phone. There was a link to Jim Higgins’, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel books editor, column. My poetry collection, The Birth Of A Widow, was included in a list of his must-reads for this summer.

Yes! The more people read it, the more I can help.

But there was a second Google alert right after it. There was an article with the headline, “Wisconsin Poet Kathie Giorgio Turns Grief Into Action”. It talked about the book, and it also announced my appearance at the Vision Zero Summit on Wednesday, June 10. It’s being held in the Centennial Hall in downtown Milwaukee. I will be offering up a few poems at the convocation at 9:00 a.m., signing books at 5:00 p.m., and participating in a panel with two other authors, Anna Zivarts and Jonathan Stalls, at 6:30 p.m. Vision Zero is a worldwide initiative seeking to eliminate pedestrian deaths by 2035.

Turning grief into action. I’m trying.

So those were the first and second good things. Then came the police report, which found the other driver at fault. It even called me “appearing normal” (I now have it in writing!). This was followed quickly by a call from my insurance agent. We’d been waiting for the police report to come out, and then the payout for Barry could be complete. She said, “I’m so glad you told me about how pristine Barry was! You were right!” Then she went on to list all of the positive aspects of Barry, which added dollars to his worth. “In all my years,” she said, “I’ve never seen a payout this large.”

I’d already done my due diligence, looking up Barry’s CarFax report, and running him through worth estimators. I had my responses up and ready, if I was given a lowball amount more appropriate for a car that was not treated like a member of the family who happened to be a king.

That wouldn’t be Barry…or Semi, or any of my previous cars.

I was braced when she named the amount. And then I relaxed. It was exactly what I wanted. And not only that, it was only a couple dollars shy of being exactly what Barry’s replacement, who is on his way to me from Utah right now, will cost. I will not be returning to a car loan. The new car will be wholly mine.

I found Barry’s “little brother”, my third Chrysler 300 (I had Hemi before I had Barry). He’s a year younger, has about the same amount of mileage, is a stunning bright blue, and has all of Barry’s bells and whistles, as well as some extra bells and whistles. He’s supposed to arrive here between June 1 and 7.

All good things. After getting off the phone call with my insurance agent, I went to look at the little Chinese ornament, and stroked the red tassel that hung from the bottom. “You’re helping,” I whispered to it. “Thanks for reminding me that there is always good in my life. There always is.”

Well…

The AC guy is done. I have to replace my HVAC.

I looked back at the little ornament. “Well, you’re keeping me real too. That’s all right.”

And it will be. Which just made me realize that I finished reading a novel today, while I was eating lunch. The final line: “It’s okay.”

And it is.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Here’s where you can see the list: https://www.jsonline.com/story/entertainment/books/2026/05/27/38-new-books-for-summer-reading-in-2026/89741342007/

And here’s the other piece:  https://www.prlog.org/13148370-wisconsin-poet-kathie-giorgio-turns-grief-into-action.html

Me with The Birth Of A Widow.

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

Well…well…

We almost had a third week where I didn’t write a Moment. I was in a car accident this past Tuesday. I was driving through a 4-way intersection, where I did not have a stop sign, but the cross street did. Someone on my left barreled through his stop sign. He was suddenly right in front of me and I plowed into his passenger side front and back doors. I was not speeding, I was only going about 15 mph because this was in a large parking lot for an outdoor mall. But the impact was huge. All of my airbags deployed – from the steering wheel, the side airbags, and Barry (my car) had knee airbags as well. I am pretty sure he’s going to be declared totaled, and I am basically a bruise from neck to toe. No broken bones, thankfully, but man, I am really ugly and in pain right now. I still haven’t gotten the police report, but I can’t imagine I would be given the fault here.

So…I’m not exactly in a joyful mood.

BUT…rewinding the week a bit…

First, that afternoon, before the accident, I had my yearly exam with my oncologist. I am still free and clear of breast cancer, and I am now 9 years out.

YES!!!

And rewinding a little further…

My daughter Olivia graduated last weekend with her Master of Science in Art Therapy. I’m sure most of you know that Olivia is on the autism spectrum. Michael and I were originally told, when she was 3 years old, that she would likely never talk, and she may only see us as bumps on a log. I never understood that phrase, because she NEVER saw us as bumps on a log. And at that doctor’s appointment that day, she played at my feet while the doctor told me all these awful things. Each time, she tapped my shoe, and when I looked down, she beamed at me. She was telling me she was just fine. When she did begin to talk, she talked with a college-level vocabulary.

And she talked, and still talks, a LOT. Michael used to sit and listen and occasionally yell out, “Period! Period!” to get her to end a sentence.

And Olivia’s journey just took off from there.

She attended college and grad school with scholarships and grants for her academic and artistic achievements. Dean’s List student. Graduated with her Bachelor of Science in Art Therapy  summa cum laude. She’s a gifted violinist and a gifted artist. She’s writing her first novel. And she landed a job in her field a few weeks before her Masters graduation.

She’s amazing. All four of my kids are amazing. I could be a contestant on Wheel of Fortune and truthfully say, “My kids are incredible!”, unlike most contestants.

The last time I watched her graduate, Michael sat beside me. This time, my sons were with me. I watched Olivia beam as she walked across the stage, beam just like she did as she played on the floor at my feet the day I was told she would be mute.

Not. A. Chance. Look at her go!

And now, for the first time in 37 years (my oldest child is 42), I don’t have a child in school. That feels very weird.

To be truthful, my whole life feels very weird right now.

I was a wife, but now I’m not.

I was a mom, and I’m still a mother, but I’m not sure what my role is anymore.

I used to move around my condo, patting my cats, Edgar Allen Paw and Muse, but now I pat Oliver and Cleo. I used to have a dog, but now I don’t.

I used to talk to my friend Leslie every Thursday, but she died on the operating table the day before Thanksgiving. That every-week hour is still empty.

The publishing industry is being fully rattled by the onset of AI, and I have no idea what’s going to happen.

And now Barry. Who I know is “just a car”. Just a material thing that gets me from here to there. But for me, my cars are beloved. They’ve all had names, genders, and personalities. Barry was – still is – a Chrysler 300S. The 300 was a car I admired from a distance for years and thought I would never be able to own. Now I’ve had 2. Barry is so named because of his color (berry) and because if he could talk, he would have a voice like Barry White. I always felt that his classic, powerful lines and his muscular appearance protected me.

And he did protect me, this past Tuesday.

That’s a good Moment too. Even with the loss.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, again, not really.

I am not going to be able to post today, I’m sorry. I just found out that a good friend has pancreatic cancer, and I am just spinning. I know there are things in my life that make me happy, I really do. But to post today would feel dishonest and disingenuous. I just can’t.

I will pull myself together and be back next week. For now, I need to let myself be sad.

The “despite” is just too hard today.

Positive comments and virtual hugs welcomed.

See you next week.