Author: Kathie

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

At 7:00 tonight, when I gently hang up the phone on my 6:00 coaching client, I will be on a break for three weeks. Three weeks! On Sunday, I fly to Portland, Oregon, then climb into my rental car and drive three hours to the Oregon coast…and to the little house I stay in that sometimes feels more like home than home.

I started going to the Oregon coast in 2006. It was the furthest I’d ever traveled, and certainly the furthest I’d ever traveled alone. At the time, I needed to just get away, to a place I’d never been, to a place where no one knew me, and to a place where no one else was.

I didn’t expect to fall in love with the little house, with the ocean, with Waldport, Oregon. When I pulled into the gravel parking spot right next to the house, my windshield became filled with blue. Multi-blues sky trailing down to multi-blues ocean, the white-capped waves and white clouds each reflecting the other. I didn’t even go into the house at first; I climbed up the steps to the back deck and just marveled. The ocean was my backyard.

I think most people, if they saw the little house, would wonder why I love it so. It’s small. It doesn’t have a dishwasher. There is only one bathroom, and the tub isn’t jetted, like mine is here at home. But there is something really special about having your every need met in such a small space. I had my choice of beds, from the queen-sized bed up in the loft, to the double-size lower bunk in what I call the second bedroom, to the queen-sized bed in the master. My choice was never in question; the master bedroom L’s out into a special writing nook, with windows looking out onto the ocean. The women who own this house have created it to be a writer and artist space. The loft is for art.

But that writing space. It is a haven. To my right, when I sit at the desk, is a bookcase. And featured on their own shelf are my books. This means that I am here, even when I’m not here. The woman who wrote those books lives here.

Since 2006, I’ve only missed returning there a few years. In 2017, I was in treatment for breast cancer and I couldn’t go. In 2020, we were all frozen by the pandemic. But otherwise, I’m there, and each time, it’s like going home. The women store my paints in the attic and they bring me a special table to paint on every time, before I get there. This year, they’re lending me a keyboard so I can keep practicing the piano during my time away.

I’ve never met them face to face. But these women are so special to me. And this place is so special.

While some might call what I’m doing when I go there a vacation, I don’t. It’s a break from my day to day life, for sure, but being there causes a shedding of roles until I’m just me. The core of me, I guess. The essence. When I’m there, I’m not a wife or a mother. I’m not a teacher or a coach or an advocate or a business owner. I am a writer, and that’s the core of me. That’s who I am. And being there allows me to embrace that fully.

I write throughout the day. If there’s a day I don’t want to write, that’s fine, because I know there’s the next day to work. I sometimes write late into the night, but mostly, at night, I paint. With my busy schedule at home, these times in Oregon have become the only time that I paint. It’s a joy. I walk the ocean, at least twice a day, sometimes more. I sleep. I read frequently, during breakfast, lunch, and dinner, during coffee breaks, in bed before I go to sleep at night. I don’t read to edit or critique, though I sometimes find myself doing that anyway. But I mostly read to revel.

I look out the window and watch whales spout as they go by. I watch pelicans mimic waves as they flow up and down over the water. Last year, as I was walking back to the house, I noticed a brown head poke up out of the water, and then swim parallel to me all the way back to where I turned to head up the steps to the house. A sea lion. I’ve seen starfish and crabs, jellyfish galore. And of course, seagulls, which I don’t much care for, but they tend to leave me alone. There was one memorable moment where a flock of seagulls flew toward me over the sand as I walked, and instead of going to one side of me, they split, and went past me to my left and my right, their wings whistling, and me totally freaked out. When they were behind me, I turned to watch them go, and I thanked them for not hurting me.

And the whole time I’m there, from the moment I get there to the last goodbye as I climb back in the car to return home, I talk to the ocean. I call her Ms. Pacific, and she has given me more gifts and more answers than I’ve ever received elsewhere.

Today, my mind’s eye and my heart are filled with visions and memories of this place. I know I will pull it on like a favorite sweater. I will breathe a sigh of relief and of great joy when I get there.

I can already hear the ocean.

Looking ahead makes my Moment for this week. By next week, I will be fully immersed.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Buckle yourself in; this is going to be a rocky ride. I’ve been trying to figure out how I can write about this week’s Moment when the Moment that has been sticking most in my head and following in my footsteps has been sad. And honestly, it’s hard to talk about, because I think so many people will consider it silly. Even I keep telling myself it’s silly, but in my own little universe here, it doesn’t feel silly at all.

So last March, I met Richard Thomas, who played John Boy on the television show, The Waltons, created by Earl Hamner, and preceded by playing John Boy in the made-for-TV movie, The Homecoming. The Waltons has long been my favorite television show, even though I never watched it when it originally aired. Instead, I sat up at the desk in my room, writing in my journal, listening to my family on the floor below, watching The Waltons, where John Boy sat at the desk in his room, writing in his journal, and listening to his family on the floor below, listening to the radio. The sense of community I felt was just so…amazing doesn’t even begin to cover it. But I felt like I connected with someone, in history, who loved writing as much as I do. Who embodied writing the way I do. Later, when I watched The Waltons in reruns, after graduating with my degree in creative writing, I connected with John Boy even more. When he learned that his novel could sit on a publisher’s slush pile for months without being read, he shouted, “That’s barbaric!” On my couch, I raised both fists in the air and shouted with him.

It led to owning the show on video, and then on DVD. It led to owning Waltons paraphernalia. It led to visiting the real Walton’s Mountain and meeting Earl Hamner’s aunt, who showed me what a trailing arbutus was. And I corrected the Walton’s Museum tour guide – she was so wrong. It led to naming my daughter Olivia. It led to Earl Hamner “friending” me on Facebook. And truly, I think it led to my creating AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, a community for writers.

And it led to my meeting John Boy, Richard Thomas, last March, standing in the cold outside the stage door where he was playing Atticus Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird. He was so gracious and kind. He signed the poetry book he wrote back when he was John Boy, he accepted my gift of a copy of Hope Always Rises, and he asked, after hearing my story, if he could hug me.

It was such a stellar night. And I admit, the part of me that can still dream, that still holds on to goals that I set for myself when I was oh so young, goals that I see falling away unaccomplished now, well, that part of me thought, Maybe he’ll read the book, love it, show it to his agent who will pitch it to a streaming channel, and it will be made into a series, with Richard Thomas playing my version of God.

I told you it was silly.

But I dreamed. And then the months went by. I didn’t hear a word. For all I know, my book was set down in his hotel room and forgotten. And so I became sad. It’s been a year of realizing that dreams are fading away. That time is running out. And it just added sad onto a sad I was already feeling. I’ve been told I’ve accomplished a lot – 14 books and counting, and AllWriters’ – and I will acknowledge that I have. But the big dream is still far, far away. And slipping beyond the horizon.

But then this week, after watching the Barbie movie, a post appeared on a Facebook page that claimed to be owned by Richard Thomas. It shared an article about Ann Roth, who played an old woman on a bench in the movie. She is a legendary (though she doesn’t want to be called that) costume designer. I answered the post, saying that it was one of the most moving parts.

And about 20 minutes later, I received a private message on Facebook from Richard Thomas. He thanked me for my post, said he hoped I was doing well. I reminded him that he’d met me and when, and he said, “Oh, of course, Giorgio!” Then he said he had to go, but if I wanted to talk further, I could see him on Google Chat, which he said was more private and protected, which was important to him because of who he was.

Now I’m not gullible. Really, I’m not. But I went to Google Chat. He’d left a message for me. But he kept calling me Giorgio. I reminded him that this was my last name. And then he said other things that didn’t make sense.

I went back to the Facebook page. Under the “About” section, I looked at “Transparency”. And discovered that the page administrator is from Nigeria.

I shut down all communication. I tried to contact Facebook about it, but if you report that someone is faking being a celebrity, you are supposed to say who, and click on the correct page for the celebrity. Richard Thomas does not have a Facebook page. So I couldn’t click on Submit and report it.

I felt so betrayed.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about dreams. How dreams get us through, keep us reaching for more. In the Barbie movie, the message is that while Barbie (the doll) told girls they could be everything, it didn’t allow girls to just be themselves. Your “be” had to be huge. You had to excel.

I have always, always worked hard at excelling. Even when I was told by my family that I was just wasting my time, sitting at home, pretending to write the Great American Novel. I did write the Great American Novel, dammit. 7 times over. Working on 8.

But that one dream…well, not so much.

So it’s been a sad week. I’ve glanced at the shelf where I have a photo from the night I met Richard Thomas and the signed copy of his poetry book, and told myself that it’s not Richard Thomas who is my hero, but John Boy, the character he portrayed and Earl Hamner created, and Richard Thomas is not John Boy. John Boy wouldn’t have left my book behind. Richard Thomas might have.

But then something else happened. Because I knew I was going to see the Barbie movie, I posted on my own Facebook pages about my novel, In Grace’s Time, published in 2017. Grace is a character who has lost her son, and she was never allowed to play with dolls as a child. Virgil owns a doll shop and hospital. And they go on one hell of a journey. “For those of you Barbie-ing over the Barbie movie (we’re going to see it tonight),” I said, “you might want to know that my novel, In Grace’s Time, has Barbies in it, as well as many other dolls.”

And beneath that post, comments began to appear.

“A lovely story!”

“I really enjoyed this story!”

“One of my FAVORITE books!”

And then:

“Kathie Giorgio, it helped me when my son passed.”

It helped me.

I helped her.

Well, you know, that was always my very first goal.

Some dreams, I realized, have come true. Some goals too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(If you want to read In Grace’s Time, you can find it at https://www.amazon.com/Graces-Time-Kathie-Giorgio/dp/161296897X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1692292107&sr=1-2 or from your favorite bookstore, or from the publisher, or from me. I’d even sign it! )

 

 

 

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

A year ago, I started taking off one day a week. The days alternate – Monday one week, Tuesday the next, then Wednesday, and so on. Doing this allows me to keep my full client and class load, but gives me a breather every week. It’s worked well.

This week, my day off is today, and I started it by sleeping in until noon. Last night was a particularly wonderful sleep, with very few awakenings. My windows are open and there was a lovely breeze blowing in. The garbage men came yesterday, so there weren’t any loud crashes as the condo dumpsters were emptied. The studio phone is still a landline, and I remembered to unplug it last night, so there wasn’t a phone ringing. I just slept, and it wasn’t a heavy sleep that usually leaves me feeling logy.

I spent a good portion of my time today wandering around outside and inside the condo, watering plants and talking to them. The classroom plants were already watered this week, so I ignored the first floor, though I did wave at the plants as I went through the classroom with my dog, Ursula, to take her outside to do her doggie business. One of the plants in the classroom is a Christmas cactus, given to me as a surprise by my husband Michael. In the movie, The Homecoming, which gave birth to the series, The Waltons, the mama, Olivia, brings up a Christmas cactus from the root cellar at Christmastime, and says to the family, “Who wants to see something pretty?” Michael said the same thing when he gave this plant to me. On the second floor, I watered two orchids. They’d been blooming like mad, but now the blooms are gone and they’re kinda ugly, really, but I would never tell them that. On the second floor deck, I have this huge big-leafed plant that I don’t know the name of, with several blooming plants at its base, and another flowering plant in the corner. Notice I don’t know the names. The big-leafed plant just unfurled a new leaf, a several week process, and I praised it for its hard work. Upstairs here on the third floor, I have the two hibiscus, of course, and they are named. Carla has been around for several years now, and Lolita is new. The hibiscus spend their winters in my office. I also have two amazingly large begonias, a three-tier raised garden with geraniums and pansies (I think), a palm tree providing a jungle to my concrete lion, Little Literary, and an outdoor clock holds three small pots of flowering plants. In my office, I just transplanted an Easter lily given to me by my son two Easters ago, and I seem to be having success with an African violet, which is blooming madly right now.

As I finished watering, and as I wrote that last paragraph, I stood back and thought, Who the hell are you?

I always thought I killed plants.

I’m not sure where that thought came from. I never really had any, beyond two Wandering Jews given to me by my high school biology teacher and a miniature evergreen that I decorated for Christmas in my college dorm. The Wandering Jews lasted through high school, college, and until my first child was born, when my attention got diverted. I don’t remember how long the evergreen lasted.

But my mother was crazy good with plants. Her house, inside and out, was one big controlled jungle. Even the bathrooms had plants. She spent time every day on these green folks, and kept bottles of special water for different types in the basement. I lived in terror of when my parents would go on vacation and I’d be asked to take care of the plants. I guess that’s where the killing thought came from, because I always lost one or two.

As a side note, my parents also fed birds, and asked me to fill the feeders while they were gone. We all know how I feel about birds. Truthfully, I would stand at their back garage door and fling handfuls of seed toward the bird feeders, never getting near. Right before my parents’ homecoming, I would insist my now ex-husband come out and fill the feeders. I probably lost a few of those too.

But now…here we are, and I suddenly have plants on every floor of my condo. I talk to the darn things, and the ones that do die, I grieve. Carla, my longest-living hibiscus tree, is especially dear to me. She’s named after my student, Carla, who died of cystic fibrosis in her thirties. The day I learned of her death, I was in Menards, and without warning, I had tears streaming down my face. I passed a floor display of hibiscus trees, and one of them reached out with a branch and caught me. I picked her up, put her in my cart, and named her Carla.

And so I wondered why I’d let plants enter my life. One or two, sure. But multiple plants on every floor?

Then this weekend, we moved my daughter Olivia into her first apartment. She graduated from college last spring, and now she’s moving on to graduate school, still at the same college. But now, she’s in an apartment on the college grounds, and not a dorm room. She likely won’t be coming home every other weekend. She won’t have to leave her apartment behind during school breaks, like she did with the dorm. We bought her grown-up things, like a toaster, a crockpot, an air fryer, plates, bowls. Silverware.

It feels very different.

There is one spot in her apartment, next to her kitchen cabinets, that looks like it should have something in it. I said, “Maybe I’ll get you a plant. A nice standing plant.”

“Make it a fake one,” she said. “I kill plants.”

And I stopped right there and looked around at the reality of this young woman, my last child, standing in her own apartment.

The plants have been adding up in my condo over the last four years. The years she was in college. And now, with Olivia in her own apartment, my condo is full of plants.

For me to take care of. Tend to. Talk to.

Well, they don’t talk back, but they do bloom, like this child has. And they are little (sometimes big) green breathing things that I am responsible for. As my responsibilities for this child, and my other three children, fade away.

I think I’ll go buy Olivia a plant, so she can see that she won’t kill it. And I think I’ll buy myself another one too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

My 63^rd birthday was this past Saturday, and my family surprised me with a trip just over the Wisconsin border into Illinois to see a show and visit the stables at the Tempel Lipizzans. This is a very special breed of horse that I’ve loved since I was a kid, and I was thrilled.

As we waited for the show to start, sitting on the front row of bleachers outside the show ring, my daughter Olivia said, “I didn’t realize you were a horse girl.”

I was stunned. I’ve loved horses for as long as I can remember. I was never a “horse girl”, meaning that I had my own horse. I was more of a horse girl wanna-be, getting as close to horses as I could whenever I could.

I can’t say for sure where it started. When I was in elementary school, I perused my Scholastic Book Club flyer every month with a passion. I looked for books that were interesting, of course, but I also looked for illustrated books with great pictures that I could trace with carbon paper and then rewrite the storyline the way I thought it should be. One of the first of these books, and one of the last I was to purge from my library as an adult, was a book called Flip by Wesley Dennis. From there, on a trip to the public library when I was in second grade, the children’s librarian recognized my reading ability and brought me from the children’s room to the young adult section. She introduced me to Walter Farley and the Black Stallion series. I can clearly remember sitting there on the floor, pulling book after book from the shelf, and bringing them all home. I read tons of Marguerite Henry books, Misty of Chincoteague and Stormy, Misty’s Foal, and Sea Star, Orphan of Chincoteague. I still remember the grandfather in those books singing, “Oh, they’re wild and woolly and full of fleas, and never been curried below the knees!” And of course, there was Black Beauty by Anna Sewell, and Green Grass of Wyoming, My Friend Flicka, and Thunderhead by Mary O’Hara. And National Velvet, by Enid Bagnold. Like Velvet, the main character in that book, I began to cut out pictures of horses, creating my own stable that I cared for with great love and respect.

In the little town of Esko, Minnesota, where I lived from when I was six years old to twelve, they had a little tiny fair every summer. There was a concession stand and a small ferris wheel and high-flying (to me) swings. And a horse show. I sat on the edge of that show ring too, and barely breathed as those great horses trotted before me. I still remember one called Blue, who was actually white, and then, of course, years later, when I fell in love with the Waltons, there was a white mule called Blue.

There are connections everywhere.

But when I was twelve years old, I went head over heels for the writer Mary Stewart, and I read all of her books. But the one that I read repeatedly was Airs Above The Ground. Airs Above The Ground is the traditional dance performed by the classic Lipizzan stallions. And I was hooked. I wanted to see these horses up close, and watch them dance like big four-legged ballerinas. But I never had the chance until last weekend.

I began to buy Breyers model horses, until I had an amazing collection. I sold them when Olivia was a young girl, and now, of course, I wish I’d kept them. Horse-racing entered my life and Triple Crown winner Secretariat became my hero. I had entire scrapbooks dedicated to him. And of course, I met him when I was 23. For Mother’s Day this year, Michael gave me a huge book that shows all of Secretariat’s progeny. One of the new items in my bucket list is a trip to Pennsylvania to meet Trusted Company, a resident at Bright Futures Farm. She is the last living daughter of Secretariat.  I would like to see her before that generation is all gone.

As I grew, I went out of my way to make friends with girls who lived on farms that had horses. I’d go to their homes as often as I could, to ride. I joined Girl Scouts for the sole purpose of getting to go horseback riding. I never had a lesson, of course. I just went by what people told me to do. In the saddle, I was in heaven. I remember riding a friend’s horse up to the top of a hill. The sun was going down, and I sat there, one hand on my knee, the other resting on the reins, and that horse and I watched the sunset. In my imagination, I struck a regal silhouette, the horse’s mane and my hair gently lifting in the breeze, our faces aglow from the evening sun. In reality…I was a kid on a horse.

But I was so happy.

So then this past weekend. I sat again ringside, not on a horse, but a keen observer. And the horses danced. Afterwards, we were able to tour the barn, and I walked from stable to stable, talking to each horse. Two stood in open doorways, held by their riders, and we could pet them and talk to them.

I did. For the first time in decades, I smelled of horse.

I was so happy. The only thing that could have made me happier was if I was up in the saddle myself.

Maybe someday. Because yes, Olivia. I am a horse girl.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Over the last weekend, Friday through Monday morning, I was in one of my favorite places, La Crosse, Wisconsin. I’ve been going to La Crosse regularly for years now, starting in 2010, mostly to meet with a book club, appear in the bookstore, or teach a class at Kinstone in nearby Fountain City. Whenever I come, I try to spend a few extra days, mostly so I can be close to the river.

Not any river. THE river. The Mississippi.

This time, my break came on Sunday. I went to Starbucks, got my favorite drink, a grande cinnamon dolce latte, with only two pumps of cinnamon dolce, thank you, and iced, and took both the drink and a book to Pettibone Park. This simple park, with a beach by the river, and I have a history. And so it’s where I go, when I want to be closest to the river.

My first time in La Crosse happened a long time ago, way back in the 1990s. I was there for a weekend away with my first husband. We came without our three children; it was sort of an unspoken last ditch effort to see if the marriage could go on. If either of us wanted to save it. My husband found us a nice hotel, right by the river. Directly across the river was Pettibone Park.

I found things for us to do. A trip to an antique store or a bookstore. A drive up Granddad’s Bluff. A visit to Our Lady of Guadalupe Shrine. A riverboat cruise. The river itself. But he mostly wanted to lay on the hotel bed and watch sports on the television, without anyone to interrupt him.

Discouraged, I went down to the hotel pool by myself and wandered between pool and hot tub for a while. Later, I wrapped myself in a towel and went out on the hotel patio. Across the river, I could see the beach and the happy sounds of people playing in the river.

I had no idea you could play and swim in the mighty Mississippi. I rarely heard the name without the “mighty” in front of it, and “mighty” didn’t seem conducive to playing. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was stand in that river. Feel the water swirl around me, going deliberately, purposefully, somewhere. It knew its direction, even if I didn’t. I’ve never been good at geography.

At dinner that night, I pointed the beach out to my husband and asked if we could stop there on our way out of town. It wouldn’t interrupt his sports-watching; we’d be on our way home anyway. He wasn’t happy, but he agreed.

We found our way across the bridge and when I saw a sign for Pettibone Park, I pointed it out. Sure enough, there was the beach, and a little beach house. My husband sat at a picnic table and crossed his arms, looking back toward our car and checking his watch. I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pants legs, and carefully, nervously, walked into the river.

I needn’t have been nervous. I felt welcomed. The water swirled around me as I’d imagined, and I stood and watched it roll away under the bridge and off into the distance. I went out as far as I could, without getting my clothes wet.

And a feeling came to me there, in that river. With my husband glowering and tapping his foot behind me, I looked away. I knew, without a doubt, in that beautiful river and no one with me who wanted to share it, that the marriage was over. But I also realized, watching the river sleek against me and then moving on, that it was just one thing that was ending.

My life wasn’t. There was more to life than this particular marriage.

I came out of the river, dried off, and we went home and moved on.

I didn’t come back for years and years. But when I did, I searched out that park. I went to the same hotel, looked across the river, saw the beach, and found my way. And then I came back, again and again. Almost always, I bring Starbucks with me, and almost always, a book, and I sit at a table and read, all while listening to the river. And I stand in it, even when it’s really cold.

One stand-out year, 2014, as I walked around the beach house toward the river, I heard a whoosh and then a wing opened in front of me. I shrieked and stepped back and something else shrieked too and I followed it as it landed in a nearby tree. It was a bald eagle. I’d nearly been walloped by a bald eagle as we both went around the same corner. It wasn’t malicious; we were both surprised.

I stood there and watched him for a while. He watched me. “I’ve only seen bald eagles in zoos,” I told him. “You’re amazing.”

I’m scared of birds. I wasn’t scared of him. Eventually, he flew off, I admired him, and then went to stand in the river.

I went to the river the year I had breast cancer in 2017. I stood in the water and knew I would be okay.

And so last Sunday, I sat in the sun, drank my Starbucks, and read a book. Then I went and stood in the river. I thought of how baptisms happen, sometimes, in rivers. And when I’m there, standing in that particular river, with all of our history swirling around us, I feel baptized over and over again. Not sure by what or who, beyond the river itself.

But it was all it took to make me happy last week.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Grandgirl Maya Mae is now ten years old, going on eleven. She’ll be in the fifth grade in the fall. And every time I see her, she’s taller. During the pandemic, when I couldn’t physically be in contact with her at all, she and I started meeting almost every night over Zoom. We read a book together. Over the couple years of the pandemic, we went through the entire Junie B. Jones series, all of Beverly Cleary, all of Lois Lowry’s Goony Bird Greene series, and so many more. By happy accident, when I googled books on cats (Maya is a devout cat person), I discovered the book Crenshaw by Katherine Applegate. We then devoured every book of hers, culminating in friends finding Katherine at the Tucson Book Festival this year and getting me two books signed by her to gift to Maya. We’re now reading Manatee Summer, by Evan Griffith, and loving it.

As we read, one thing became very, very clear: Grandgirl Maya Mae loves animals. Cats are her favorite, no doubt, but whether it has two legs, four legs, no legs, fur, skin, hair, she loves it.

Which led to me, a few months ago, to offer to send her to a week-long Critter Camp at our local humane society. Maya lit up like a disco ball. This is the week that she’s there.

This is the same humane society where I worked as a kennelworker from the time I was a junior in high school to my sophomore year in college. When I was sixteen years old, my family moved to Waukesha. I would attend my third high school, due to frequent moves. Because I was sixteen and knew college was on the way, I wanted a job. So on my own, I went to the library at my soon-to-be old home, found a phone book (remember those?) that included Waukesha, found the humane society and its address, and wrote to them, telling them I was moving there and was looking for a part-time job. Much to my surprise, they interviewed me as soon as we moved in and I got the job, working on weekends, and during the week during school vacations.

Like Maya, there was no doubt I loved animals. From the day I was born, there was a pet in the house. I was lucky enough when I lived in Stoughton to have several friends who lived on farms with horses, and so I was in the saddle as much as possible. The first “book” I ever wrote was called The Deer That Went Boating, and was about a deer that accidentally fell into a boat and makes friends with a frog. When I began to write about people, they always had animals. And you may recall that my novel, If You Tame Me, is about a woman who owns a green iguana named Newt and a man who owns 6 parakeets, Lucky, Plucky, Ducky, Aristotle, Blue Boy and Butch. There is also a character that owns a pet store.

Through my years at the humane society, I fell in love with too many animals to count. While still in high school, I began to write for a magazine called KIND, which stood for Kindness In Nature’s Defense. It was the kids’ magazine published by the Humane Society of the United States. At one point, my father accused me of loving animals more than I loved people. I was stunned; I didn’t know I had to choose.

I didn’t choose. I love them all.

Throughout the years post-job at the humane society, a steady stream of animals have made it through my home. Cats: Pavlov, Jake, Einstein, Cornelius, Edgar Allen Paw, and Muse. Dogs: Cocoa, Blossom, Donnie, Ursula Le Guin Giorgio. Guinea pigs: Rover, Ginger, Fido and Butch, while I was in college. Several more plus hamsters who belonged to my kids. Parakeets, some of whom bear the same names as the ones in my book. Fish. Oh, and now we have Olivia’s African leopard frogs. I have grandcats. Hightop, Charlie, Alfadore, and Spice.

I just can’t imagine a life without animals.

And now, here’s this young girl, ten years old. Her hair is long, straight, and brown, parted in the middle. Like mine was. She loves animals, like I do. And she’s a reader. When I message her that I’m ready to head to Zoom and read, she always texts back, “Yay!!!”

This week, she’s regaled me with stories about Precious, the fat white cat, Ginger, the teeny dog she’s walked, Meatloaf, the bearded dragon (Meatloaf?), Snowball, the rabbit, Rosie and Roxie, the kittens. She went on a field trip to a farm and saw horses, including a miniature horse, and goats named Mike and Ike. She’s just bubbled over with enthusiasm.

When I drove her home yesterday, she told me that maybe someday, she can work there. Or at least be a volunteer. Because she just loves animals.

Last night, when I texted her that I was running late, but would still let her know when I was home, so we could read, she answered, “Great!!!” And when I said I was on my way, I got my “Yay!!”

A grandchild who loves to read. And yes, she sometimes writes stories. And she loves animals.

Nothing and no one could be more perfect.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This week is easy…and it’s fast.

I am currently sitting in a dorm room at Mount Mary University. Yes, this is where Olivia went for her undergrad years, and in the fall, she’ll be here to start earning her Master’s Degree.

But I’m not here for her.

I’m here for me. And 16 other writers, They’ve flown and driven in from Wisconsin, Illinois, Minnesota, North Carolina, Colorado, Massachusetts, New York, and Texas.

Some of these people, I see face to face every week. Some, I see peering at me from my computer screen. And some are voices on the phone.

But for this weekend, they are all here, under one roof.

I’ll be lecturing tonight. And then, throughout the rest of the weekend until Sunday afternoon, I’ll be meeting people in one-on-one consultations, and running workshops, and, on Saturday afternoon, joining with my faculty to show everyone just who it is they’re learning from.

And from me, they’re learning from someone who has had 14 books accepted and published by traditional publishing houses in 13 years. In every major genre – fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. They’re working with someone who has helped thousands learn how to do magic with their craft, and reach the goals they’ve set for themselves. They’re working with someone who started a business with nothing but good intentions and built it, 18 years later, into an international creative writing studio.

A creative writing home and community.

This is the weekend when I crow about what I’ve done, because I’m seeing the results of 18 years, no, make that 28 years, as I’ve taught for 28 years, of incredibly hard work. I’m seeing these faces. I’m reading these words.

And it’s all just freaking amazing.

I am not all that comfortable, usually, with patting myself on the back. But this weekend, this one weekend a year, I am patting with both hands. And I’m letting the hands around me pat my back too. And wrap me up in hugs.

Honestly, it’s just not that often that you feel like you’re in your niche. In the groove. In your element. And comfortable in your own skin.

I am so comfortable. And soooooooooo happy to be here.

So I have to get to work, which means that this is a short Today’s Moment. But boy, is it ever deeply felt.

To everyone involved with AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, I am just so happy to know you.

And for those who aren’t a part of this yet…what are you waiting for?

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Watch my Facebook page from pictures of this year’s retreat!

www.allwritersworkshop.com

 

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

It was very weird here last week in Wisconsin. We had a multitude of air quality warnings, unlike any we’ve ever had in my time of living here, which is since 1976. The warnings were the result of the wildfires in Canada. At one point on Wednesday, it hit the news that Wisconsin had the worst air quality of anywhere in the world.

THE WORLD.

We were told to stay inside if at all possible, to turn on the a/c if we had it, and if we didn’t, to still shut the windows. If we went outside, we were to wear masks. It was very gray outside, putting us into instant February, but with really hot temperatures.

I did have to go out, and when I did, my lungs seemed fine, but my eyes just burned.

During the warm months, which I consider to be anything above 55 degrees, I park my Chrysler 300S, named Barry, and drive my convertible, a Chrysler 200, named Semi. Semi is so named because, before Barry, I had a Chrysler 300C Hemi, named Hemi, and because of the 300 and 200, Michael said that my convertible was a semi hemi. And so, Semi.

Years ago, approximately in 2002, I bought my first convertible, a hunter green 1997 Chrysler LeBaron, named LeB (pronounced Luh-Bee). It was the car I always wanted, and as I tooled around in it that summer, which included a road trip to my residency in Vermont for grad school, I fell in love and swore that I would never give up having a convertible. Even though it’s really kind of silly, in a state like Wisconsin, where it’s cold for a good portion of the year. (By the way, if you read my novel, Hope Always Rises, LeB is the car that Hope drives in Heaven.)

Eventually my love for convertibles led to my trading in the LeBaron for a Chrysler Sebring LXi convertible, named SeB (pronounced Suh-Bee).

And then SeB was traded in for Semi.

As I’ve grown older, I have, at times, become more practical. A few months ago, I seriously considered selling Semi. I love Barry, he’s a joyous car to drive. I am the only driver in the house – Michael does not drive. Olivia, of course, is gone a lot of the time, and she drives the VW Beetle I gave her for her birthday/Christmas/high school graduation/all gifts for the rest of her life. So really, there are two cars at my house that only I drive. Practically speaking, I don’t need two cars.

I came to a decision – I was going to do it. Sell Semi. But only after summer ended. I wanted one more summer.

And then spring was late to come, and summer even later. And then the air quality warnings hit. I couldn’t drive Semi when the air was so bad.

But this past Wednesday, the worst day, the day Wisconsin had the worst air quality in the WORLD, well, this past Wednesday passed. And on Friday? Glorious blue skies. Sunshine. A breeze. Decent temperatures.

And I went out. Well, Semi and I went out. Together. Just the two of us.

CD tucked into the player. Coldplay’s Ghost Stories. I pushed forward to “A Sky Full Of Stars”. I cranked the volume.

Oh, and I stopped at Starbucks for a grande iced cinnamon dolce latte, with only 2 pumps of cinnamon dolce. My drink.

And then I hit the gas!

Oh, baby. Blue skies above. Sun warming me from head to toes. Perfect amount of wind. A dance-in-your-seat song. And my drink.

Euphoria. Absolute side-splitting, smile-exploding, wild-whooping euphoria. With that car around me, and the music, and the sweet, sweet taste of a cinnamon dolce latte and caffeine roaring through my veins, there was absolutely nothing in this world that I couldn’t do. Nothing.

And…I could breathe and the air didn’t burn my eyes.

I think if I could have kept on driving, forever and ever, I would have. But there is still that practical part of me, donchaknow. I slurped the end of my drink. I pulled into my garage. I gave Barry a pat and told him I still loved him and would indeed return to driving him soon.

And I hugged my convertible. Shamelessly.

Honestly, I think my convertibles have been the best therapists I’ve ever had. Sometimes, a drive is all it takes.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Living a very public life, as I do, can be a pretty surreal experience. I get a lot of reflective impressions from the people I interact with – readers, students, clients, participants in presentations and appearances. It can be pretty amazing, how people identify me.

For example, years ago, I wrote a story about a woman in her sixties who was having to put her adult cognitively challenged daughter into a group home because the woman could no longer handle the physical requirements necessary (this story, “What Counts”, appeared individually in Thema magazine, and then was also a chapter in my first novel, The Home For Wayward Clocks). After it appeared, both as a story and a chapter, I was deluged with compassionate and supportive letters and emails from readers who assumed that I must either be like that woman, or actually was that woman, because of how I presented her. It was wonderful to know that I hit the nail on the head so exactly…but at the time, I was in my late thirties and I didn’t have an adult cognitively challenged daughter. Other than writing it, I was nowhere in the story.

I seem to come with a reputation of sorts, both as a writer and a teacher. New students and clients will come to me, telling me they’ve heard I’m intense, passionate…and then some will say “intimidating”. I try to tell myself that the different reactions to me are more a product of the other person than from me. It’s kind of weird, really, the way I end up seeing myself through others’ eyes, but also seeing myself in the mirror every day.

Last night, I had an appearance at a nearby library. I was talking about the writing life, the realities as opposed to the myths that so many people seem to believe. As the room filled, I noticed the way people configured themselves. The people I was familiar with sat to the front. In the way back were people I’d never met before. In the middle, empty seats.

“Please move up,” I called to those in the back. “Are you afraid I’ll bite?”

“Yes!” one honest person answered.

I assured them I wouldn’t, and to their credit, two people decided to take my word for it and move to the front. The others remained huddled in the back. But by the end, I had them all talking and we had a really good time. No bites occurred.

Then this morning, I was talking via Zoom to a potential new client who wanted to go into coaching with me. Several times throughout our discussion, she said, “I’m so nervous! Oh, I’m so nervous!”

I finally asked her why.

“Because you’re YOU!” she said.

Well, yeah. That’s who I try to be anyway. But by the end of the conversation, while she was still nervous, she said that I was definitely the next step in her process, and so we have officially entered into coaching for her memoir.

And then, thank goodness, there was the experience in my Wednesday Afternoon Women Writers’ Workshop, a “live” group that meets every week. I was talking about the upcoming AllWriters’ Annual Retreat. It’s a four-day fully immersive experience into the writing life, where I lecture, meet with students one on one, run workshops…and have a hell of a good time. One of my students asked, “Okay, but are you as nice there as you are here?”

That one took my words away for a bit. But then I said, “Of course!” I was so glad to hear the “nice”. I’m a little perturbed to think that people might think I’m different in different situations.

I was pondering all of this as I drove home from my library appearance last night. I’d run the gamut from having people being scared I’d bite, to someone being nervous around me, to being nice, but maybe not nice in all situations. Huh. I finished my work for the day, went downstairs, got my daily dose of The Waltons (of course I’m nice! I watch The Waltons and I’ve memorized all of the episodes!), and then checked my email and such one more time before bed. On Facebook, I had a notification that I’d received a response to my comment on a student’s Facebook page. The response came from someone called “Bravo Bob”.

Ohboy, I thought.

But I went to the page. The comment I’d left came from TWO YEARS ago. My student had a status that showed everyone how to type certain symbols that would then turn magically into a penguin. In response, two years ago, I tried it, got my penguin, and said, “I did it!”

Under that two-year old penguin, Bravo Bob wrote a long post about how he read my post and how inspiring I am, how beautiful, and what an amazing person! He said God threw everything into the making of me! He went on and on and on…all from a two-year old penguin. And of course, he ended with how he couldn’t friend me, but if I could friend him, he’d be really happy. Man, his life would be fulfilled.

I sat back and roared.

Now, I know this guy was a creeper. In fact, I went back today to try to find his exact comment, so I could use it here, and I can no longer see it, so it must have been removed. But we all get these things and, hopefully, most of us recognize them for what they are. This one, though, was from a post showing a little emoji penguin. Two. Years. Ago.

And I was just such a wonderful human being.

I read the comment to my husband, who thought for a minute, and then said, “Well, Kathie, some people are just into penguins.”

Laughed until I cried.

But ultimately, it was just such a good reminder. Just accept people’s impressions graciously. Some of them will be right; some will be wrong. And to keep on doing what I do, as me, because really, that’s all I can do. I love what I do, there’s no one else I’d rather be, and it shows.

Dolly Parton said, “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.”

Done and done. I bet she’s a nice person too.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Many years ago, a friend, who was determined to show me that it was possible for me to meditate, brought me to a labyrinth. I’d been told I should include meditation in my life since I was a squirrely seventeen-year old, but for a long time, meditation was presented to me as something you wore a leotard and tights for, you sat on a pillow in the lotus position, and you shut off all thoughts. Getting into a lotus position was difficult enough, but turn off all thoughts? That doesn’t happen, not for me, and I don’t believe it happens for the majority of us. The function of our brains is to think. Even when we sleep, we think and produce dreams.

But this friend said, “Try a labyrinth.” At first, I confused a labyrinth with a maze, but they are completely different.  A maze is all about finding your way out of a tremendous physical puzzle, with choices and strategy. With a labyrinth, you can’t get lost. Even though the path winds, there is only one way to go.

But I was skeptical when I approached my first labyrinth. It was in a park, and it was lovingly maintained by a garden society, so that there was always something blooming. If nothing else, I figured, I’d get a nice walk out of it. I was willing to try.

And it was a nice walk. I made it to the middle, sat on the meditation bench for a few moments, then began to wind my way out. And it was on that winding out that I realized…my steps had slowed, my eyes drifted from one lovely bloom to the next, and I wasn’t thinking about my schedule, where I was going next, what needed to be done, what I was worried about, or anything at all. My body was loose and relaxed and I was just simply enjoying the moment.

With that, I was hooked.

There will be some that say that this wasn’t meditation, but I feel that there are many different definitions of meditation, and each individual person will find their own way. It was a time of stepping away for me. When thoughts did occur, they were soon behind me with the last looked-at flower and I was just moving along a path where I couldn’t get lost.

Since then, I’ve walked many labyrinths. I look for them when I travel, and they all provide unique experiences. I was even chased by a wild boar in one. Not much relaxation there! I’ve returned to the original labyrinth often, including this last weekend.

Arriving at Regner Park in West Bend, Wisconsin, I felt myself relax before I even set foot in the labyrinth. I was aware of a nagging fear about birds, particularly red-winged blackbirds. It was the height of their nesting season, and as the labyrinth is right next to a river and there are many trees, it is a perfect place for these birds to have their families. I’ve been attacked by red-wings several times, and their calls, especially their warning to stay away, can just freeze me. But I hadn’t walked the labyrinth in over a year, and so I shoved the fear away and soon stood at the “Believe” stone that marked the entrance.

Sometimes, a Moment is made up of solitude and quiet. It wasn’t totally quiet there, as there was traffic going by and a baseball game going on in the park’s diamond, and there were, of course, birds. But no one was talking to me, or at me, or around me, no one was making demands, no one was even close to me. For that Moment, just like the first experience I had with this labyrinth, I set aside worries and fears and to-do lists.

Until I got to the outer ring, which was near a tree, and as I moved toward it, I heard it. The warning call of a red-wing.

Now, the perfectionist in me said, “Stay the path. You walk a labyrinth because you don’t have to think about where you’re going. If you step off, you’re going to have to figure out how to gain those missed steps back.” The fearful person in me said simply, “RUN!” And the ornithophobia (fear of birds) in me froze. I suppose I was waiting to be pecked to death.

And then, my brain, or maybe my heart, kicked in. Carefully, I stepped two rows in. Then I walked far enough to clear the tree, before stepping two rows back and continuing on my way. After my time on the meditation bench (where I sat with my back to the tree), I wound my way back out and followed the same pattern when the tree, and the red-wing warning, approached.

I was not attacked. But I also didn’t run away. Whew.

For some, this may seem like a small Moment, but not all Moments are big. One of my favorite places in my hometown is the riverwalk along the Fox River. Two years ago, I was attacked several times on separate walks by red-winged blackbirds. They attack from behind, and these birds pecked my scalp and bit me behind my ears. Then another red-wing attacked me as I walked behind my home. This time, I fell as I ran, and the bird didn’t give up, but got into my hair and pecked my ears and even my hands when I covered my head. I became the Hitchcock movie, The Birds.

The end result: I haven’t walked the riverwalk in two years. I also haven’t walked around my home in that time. And when I drive my convertible, and I’m stopped by a light and there is the sound of a red-wing, it takes everything in me to keep from running the light.

And now, for those minutes that I stood frozen in the labyrinth at Regner Park, it looked like my love of labyrinths might be carried away by the red-winged blackbird too.

But I found a way.

Small Moment. Huge sigh of relief.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And by the way, over my years of walking labyrinths, I’ve developed a class, The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit. I use it to teach writers and visual artists the five steps of the creative process, and then we put those steps to work on a labyrinth, followed by an afternoon of giving life to the ideas the labyrinth brings forth. I will be teaching this class again on July 22^nd, from 10 – 3, at Kinstone in Fountain City, WI. You can see info on the class here:  https://www.kinstonecircle.com/events/labyrinth-creative-spirit/