This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

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

Ah, a new year. 2026. As we closed out 2025 last night, I made one wish: that this year be a year that I’m not glad to see end.

The last two years have been rough. We had 16 good days at the beginning of 2024, with no idea of what was ahead. January 17, 2024, changed everything. Though I have to say, I still look into a new year with hope. That’s a good thing.

So way back on September 26, still in 2025, I finished my next novel, Unique In All The World. I submitted it to my publisher, and it was accepted. I signed the contract the day before Christmas Eve. This means I have a poetry collection, The Birth Of A Widow, due for release in early 2026 (I don’t have a date yet) and a novel that will be released on February 18, 2027.

That’s a lot to be happy about. And I am.

But from September 26^th on, I didn’t write a thing, other than this blog. It wasn’t that I had writer’s block – I don’t even believe in writer’s block. And I had plenty of ideas. But I would sit down at my computer, place my fingers on the keys, maybe type one sentence…and then I just felt tired. I closed the lid of my laptop and went to take a nap.

There have been a lot of naps between September 26th and now.

Throughout my life, I’ve only stopped writing twice…and they’ve both occurred in the last couple years. Michael died on June 19^th, 2024, and I didn’t write for 3 months. Then, visiting the Oregon coast in the special little house with the ocean as the backyard, I sat down in the writer’s nook (the owners of the house keep my books on a shelf in that nook), stared at the blank screen, and began to write. Several hours later, I looked up, had a sip of cold coffee, and realized I’d written 120 pages.

That was the start of Unique In All The World, the novel due out in February of 2027.

The words never stopped. They just remained quietly in my head until I was ready and able to come out again.

And now…another three-month stoppage.

Michael’s horrific accident, 5-month attempt at recovery, and subsequent death were all…well, I already used horrific, but that is the word for it. Both my daughter Olivia and I found ourselves stunned that the second Christmas without him, and now moving toward the 2^nd anniversary (for lack of a better word) of his accident, is harder than the first. Someone said the words “traumatic grief” to me, which surprised me too. I went to see a therapist who specializes in traumatic grief, someone who also lost her partner in a similar way that I lost Michael. She informed me that the first year is filled with numbness. In the second year…the numbness wears off.

Boy, does that ever make sense. And is it ever a kick in the teeth.

And so, there were two sets of times when the core of my life – writing – came to a stop. During year 1, when I was numb. And now, during year 2, as the numbness fades away.

But this week, the second week that I had off from teaching for the holidays, I sat down with my computer on Monday. For me, historically, I begin new writing projects on Mondays. Monday always feels like the beginning to me. I set up my page, and then wrote a title. “When It Hits”. And then I bowed my head.

When I looked up several hours later, I’d written an entire short story. Beginning to end. Not finished, it needed rewriting, but there it was.

Oh, soaked through with happiness. And relief. And a feeling that not everything has changed.

So I rewrote on Tuesday and Wednesday, and I will today too. I already have an idea for the next story, and I’m eager to finish this one so I can get to that one.

Whew.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

I’m writing this post a day early, on Christmas Eve, as tomorrow, I will be busy with family. I am also all alone right now, with the exception of two young orange cats. Two of my big kids, as I call them, are at their father’s house. One big kid is living in Louisiana. Michael’s and my daughter, Olivia, is out with her boyfriend.

And of course, Michael is gone.

This morning, I finished reading the book, The Year Of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. I’d been told to read this book a lot, since Michael died on June 19^th, 2024. I bought it, but resisted reading it. As I wrote last week, I just read A Three Dog Life by Abigail Thomas, and I got so much out of it, I decided to try The Year Of Magical Thinking.

At first, I hated it and nearly gave up on the book. Didion is very lofty in her writing. Her husband dies at the beginning of the book, but then the majority of the book is spent on the illness of her daughter, who was in the hospital at the time. I even looked back at the description of the book, to see if I’d misunderstood when I thought the book was about grief over losing her husband. I didn’t misunderstand. But then, with the daughter’s release from the hospital and then rehab, we shifted into grief. And suddenly, I was sitting right beside Didion.

This morning, as I sat in my recliner, the condo empty but for those two cats, I drank great coffee, had breakfast, and read. Near the end of the book, and the end of Didion’s first year without her husband, I read these lines:

“The craziness is receding, but no clarity is taking its place.

I look for resolution and find none.”

I am nearing the second anniversary of the accident, Michael’s being hit and run over by a passenger van, on January 17, 2024, heralding the start of what was five months of hell for him. And five months of hell for us. This culminated in his death, despite his trying so very hard to survive. And I read those lines this morning, and I felt them down to my bones.

Then I looked up at Michael’s urn, sitting on the piano across the room from me. Atop the urn, as if the urn was his head, sat what we called Michael’s elf hat. I put it there yesterday.

It is actually a jester’s hat, complete with little bells. When Michael and I moved in together, he came with the hat. I have no idea why he had one. All I know is that he had it for years…longer than he was with me.

That hat, and an ornament that looks like a spatula, define Michael at Christmastime. The spatula was a gift from his nephew, Danny, who was a little boy at the time. When I asked Michael why a spatula, that first Christmas together, he laughed and said, “I have no idea. It may have been what he could afford. But it goes on the tree every year.”

It is on the tree this year. And the hat is on the urn.

Last year, I just couldn’t handle putting up the Christmas tree. It meant going to get the Christmas things from our off-site storeroom, and opening that storeroom door meant coming face to face with many things belonging to Michael. I couldn’t do it. I bought an old ceramic tabletop Christmas tree, like those from the 80s, and set it up on my island. We put the presents around it on the island. It was the best I could do.

This year, I said okay to the tree. My son Andy and Olivia put it up and decorated it. I couldn’t bring myself to actually join in, but I watched, and I’ve admired the tree ever since. I eventually put on 3 ornaments that I added this year. One shows five animals in front of a fireplace. Two orange cats, one long-haired and one short-haired, are looking at three others, a small gray cat, another orange cat, and a brown and white dog. The orange cats are saying, “You know, they still miss you.” And the three others are saying, “We know. We are always with them.” The names are under the animals: Oliver and Cleocatra, the two orange cats with me today. Edgar Allen Paw, Muse, and Ursula, the three I’ve lost. Another ornament was drawn by Kami Cotler, who played Elizabeth on the Waltons, my favorite TV show. It shows the Waltons family on the porch, and she signed the back. And the last is a wooden penguin from the zoo.

When we put the tree up, I asked Olivia where the elf hat was. Olivia’s been wearing it on Christmas ever since she became old enough to hand out the presents. I thought the hat was in her closet. She came out with a hat, but it wasn’t it. “No,” I said. “It’s a jester’s hat, remember? With bells?” She looked at the hat she brought out and shrugged. “This is the only one I have,” she said.

And so I questioned my memory. But how could I misremember a jester’s hat that I knew for as long as I knew Michael?

Yesterday, I went upstairs to dig through the Christmas stuff again, looking for one more small stocking for my new grandcat, Kubota. This past spring, I gathered the courage to go through the storeroom, sort, donate, throw away, and bring home. I was able to bring home the Christmas stuff and get rid of the storeroom. Digging now through the tub holding garland and Christmas stockings, I found the small stocking that used to belong to my grandcat, Alfadore, but now will belong to Kubota. I found it quickly, but then felt a push to dig further.

At the bottom of the tub, the jester’s hat.

If one can hug the non-existent stuffing out of a hat, that’s what I did.

I brought it and the stocking downstairs. Michael’s stocking, by the way, is on our stairway with the others, even though there won’t be anything in it. There won’t be anything in mine either. I hung Kubota’s stocking and then turned to the urn.

“Here you go,” I said, removing the wrong hat and putting on the right one. I adjusted the streamers, making the bells jingle.

There’s a spatula on my tree. There’s a jester’s hat on Michael.

While clarity remains elusive, and there’s been no resolution, I can look at the urn, and look at the hat, ring the bells as I go by.

And that will have to do. Merry Christmas, everyone. Love those you’re with.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m back.

And I don’t think I’ve ever been happier for a book in my life.

If you know me, you know words rule my existence. If I’m not writing them, I’m reading them, through published books and through the manuscripts of many, many students and clients. My classroom is full of books, and so is my home, which even has a shelf devoted to only my own books.

Soon after Michael’s accident, when he was still in the ICU, many people recommended that I read My Stroke Of Insight by Jill Bolte Taylor. I was resistant, but with so many people telling me to read it, I bought the book. It very quickly made me angry. Taylor’s experience was nothing like Michael’s. Yes, the stroke gave her a brain injury and she went through a lot. But she was home and walking and working on talking a week after her stroke. The only thing I found valuable in the book was a list at the end, that talked about how to behave and talk to someone with a brain injury.

After Michael died, many people recommended that I read Joan Didion’s book, The Year Of Magical Thinking. It’s about her experience with the first year after her husband’s death. I did buy it, and it’s on my To Read shelf. But I have not yet managed to open its covers. Sometimes, things just feel too close.

A few days ago, I finished reading a novel, Lit, by Tim Sandlin. I’ve had an incredible run of books lately, devouring all of them. Lessons In Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus. Wrecked by Catherine Newman. Some Bright Nowhere by Ann Packer. Heart The Lover by Lily King. And then Tim Sandlin’s book. Absolutely drunk on my recent deluge of incredible books, I sat in front of my To Read shelf and debated about what was next.

Bear in mind my To Read Shelf is actually two shelves. There’s a lot I want to read.

And I found a book I didn’t remember buying. The title was very intriguing, A Three Dog Life. It was a memoir. I pulled it out and read the jacket description.

“When Abigail Thomas’s husband, Rich, was hit by a car, his skull was shattered, his brain severely damaged.”

I put the book back. When did I buy this? Why did I buy this? No one recommended it to me…I must have found it on my own.

I pulled it back out. Turned to the first page. And then I read it cover to cover.

Nothing has come closer to my own experience. While Thomas’s husband lived for seven more years, most of it in a facility for Traumatic Brain Injury victims, there was so much that resonated. So much I recognized. And so very much that let me know that my reactions, my behaviors, my feelings during this whole damn time were normal and shared by others.

Thomas wrote about TBI patients going through a time of great rage and angry behavior. It’s normal in the period following the injury. No one told me that. I thought it was just Michael. I thought I was the only woman in the world who was scared at times of her gravely injured husband.

Thomas wrote about realizing that, some days, when her husband’s behavior was erratic and angry, it didn’t do her or him any good for her to remain in his room. So she walked out.

So did I. Many times. Often with him yelling at me to get out, to go away (often not knowing who I was), and his voice following me down the hospital hallway as I ran.

After several years passed for Thomas and her husband, she bought a house close to the facility where her husband lived. She adopted three dogs who she loved dearly. And as time went by, she found herself happy. Even though, she said, it was a life built on tragedy.

“And then one day I asked myself a terrible question. If I could make Rich’s accident never have happened, would I do it? Of course I would. Wouldn’t I? And instead of yes, I hesitated. But by posing the question, I had assumed the power, and by hesitating, I put myself behind the wheel of the car that struck my husband.

You want to talk about guilt?”

And then:

“BUT LOOK AT YOU, I STILL SAY TO MYSELF. HOW DARE YOU. You built this on tragedy.”

The capitalizations, by the way, are hers.

And I hugged that book to my chest as if Abigail Thomas was right there with me.

Her husband lived for seven years. Mine died after five months. But I can tell you that any time I find myself feeling happy, smiling, laughing, even just sitting in quiet contentment at home, an orange cat on my chest and an orange cat on my lap, the fireplace throwing light, my day’s work done, and the familiarity of the place I’ve lived for 20 years all around me…I then get walloped with the heaviest soakingest hardest wave of guilt.

Look at you, I think. How dare you. You are happy amidst tragedy.

Oh, it’s been hard. In so many ways, on so many levels.

And now, there was this book. And this person, this woman, Abigail Thomas. I wasn’t alone.

The relief that fell over me was easily as heavy as the guilt.

Did I take care of Michael well enough? Did I stand by his side, sit by his bed, long enough? Did I offer comfort and unconditional love, letting him know that I would be there, no matter the outcome? Even though the outcome became death?

Did I love Michael enough?

Yes. Yes, I did.

Words have saved me, over and over again, in my life. And words have saved me again.

Thank you, Abigail Thomas. I hope to meet you, and play with your dogs, and give you a real hug.

Maybe I’ll open Joan Didion’s book next.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

Well, not quite.  For those waiting to see this week’s This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, I am cutting myself some slack today and not writing it. I found myself having to dig and dig for a Moment, and I wasn’t coming up with anything. The blog has always been produced with absolute honesty, so I didn’t want to write just anything. It’s been a rough couple weeks.

Working hard to find peace this holiday season. I hope you all are finding peace too.

I’ll be back next week.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s really hard to write this week’s Moment, considering last week’s Moment was about moving step by step through the grief I’ve experienced, and then, within an hour of posting that blog, I found out that a very close friend died unexpectedly on the operating table. She was supposed to be on that table for three to four hours, then recover in the hospital for three to four days, then go home to celebrate a late Thanksgiving. During her at-home recovery, we were going to continue to work on her new novel.

That didn’t happen. Leslie was diagnosed with liver cancer three weeks prior to Thanksgiving. She was told, through testing, that the tumor was small and contained – it hadn’t metastasized. It would be removed, and her life would continue. I spoke to her in the days before surgery and messaged her on Facebook the morning of. After writing the blog, I went on Facebook again to see if anyone posted an update, and found instead an announcement that she died. The tumor was larger than expected and more pervasive. Leslie hemorrhaged and then went into cardiac arrest. And then she was gone.

Ten minutes after reading this, a friend of Leslie’s, who had been given a list by Leslie of people to notify after the surgery, called to tell me the news.

A week later, I am still stunned and overwhelmed.

I met Leslie close to 30 years ago, when I was still teaching for Writers Digest for their Online Writing Workshops. She and I hit it off, and eventually, she began to work with me one on one. This was before I even started AllWriters’. We quickly moved into a friendship as well as the professional relationship, and set up our meeting times so we could get the work done, then just jabber for an hour or so. Michael always knew when I was talking to Leslie, because I’d be laughing so hard.

Leslie was a special ed teacher and she followed my daughter Olivia closely, talking to her on the phone and cheering for her, and using quotes from Livvy to share with her own classroom. Leslie was hoping to come to Olivia’s graduation from graduate school this spring.

When I was in grad school in Vermont for my MFA, and complained about the lack of good Midwestern food (the school was connected to a culinary school, who used us as guinea pigs. I remember looking down at my salad and thinking it resembled a bowl of evergreen needles. Where was the lettuce?), Leslie drove to me from Connecticut and we scoured the surrounding area until we found a grilled cheese sandwich.

Whenever Michael was sick and in the hospital, she sent baskets of gifts. From the time Michael was hit by the passenger van, through his attempt at recovery, through his death, to last week Wednesday, she was as by my side as much she could be, with the miles of Wisconsin and Connecticut between us.

And she continued to write. Three books were published, and a fourth was underway. I am included in her gratitude at the front of every book. The new book is a mystery. And now I’ll never know whodunit.

But here’s the thing. Here’s why I’m writing about this here, in a blog about a Moment of happiness. First off, she provided many, many, many Moments of happiness in 30 years.

But…Leslie and I were polar opposites politically. Complete and total polar opposites.

But we were still the best of friends.

I’ve watched so much divisiveness as people have severed friendships and family connections over politics. It makes me want to pound my head against a wall.

If Leslie and I had let our politics define our friendship, I would never have had the gift of knowing her. Or she the gift of knowing me. I wouldn’t have joined in with her laughter, which was so contagious that people within earshot would start laughing without even knowing what was so funny. I wouldn’t have known her gentle care for children, and her belief that all children of all abilities deserve the best in life. I wouldn’t have had her lifting me up when I didn’t think it was possible to get up anymore. I wouldn’t have been able to admire her steadfast faith, when I find it so hard to believe in any higher power at all.

We both kept our ears and minds open for each other. We listened to what each believed, and if we didn’t agree, then we just didn’t agree. We also both learned that there is a spectrum in political beliefs, just as there is in everything. You might believe this part of a political framework, but not that. You might not believe that, but believe this.

And so when I see people throwing those they’ve been close to out of their lives because of political disconnects, I look at Leslie – and now I think of her, because I can’t see her anymore – and feel oh so grateful that we didn’t allow any of that to come between us. That we recognized the kaleidoscope that is our personalities and our personhood and we clung to each other.

I am beyond grateful to have had Leslie in my life, and even with her gone, her influence and memory will still be here.

I am bereft. Again. Still. But because of Leslie, I know I can pick myself up and continue to move forward.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(There won’t be any photos today. I don’t have any of Leslie and me.)

 

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

Back in 2018, when I chose Thursday as the day to write This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, I didn’t think about it always falling on Thanksgiving day. I’d like to take credit for that as a moment of brilliance, but I didn’t. It is pure happenstance. But ultimately, it’s a good thing.

I can tell you that, after the year we had in 2024, it hasn’t been easy to feel thankful. Michael’s horrible accident and death, and the deaths of other family members that followed, has created the most difficult time of my life. This blog has helped. And so did what happened last Saturday.

I was in an event at the Waukesha Public Library, a fundraiser for the Friends of the Library. The event was dubbed, “Author Maggie Ginsberg In Conversation With Author Kathie Giorgio”. I was happy to do it. Maggie had been “in conversation” with me twice already, at the launch of Don’t Let Me Keep You and at an appearance at Daydream Believer Books in Lake Mills. She was the interviewer, I was the interviewee, and this time, we were switching roles. I got to ask the questions, rather than answer them.

During our conversation, and then the Q & A that followed, someone asked about the meaning behind the title of Maggie’s novel, Still True. Maggie told this story:

During a difficult time in her life, one of those times where you feel like the floor is out from under you, the world is an alien place, and you just might never recover, a friend came to see her. The friend verified that Maggie likely didn’t want to talk about this time, so she asked instead about Maggie’s children. About her career. About other things in her life that Maggie loved.

Then the friend said, “Well, those things are still true, aren’t they.”

Maggie was gobsmacked. And as she told the story, so was I. I was very glad we were in the Q & A portion, because I was simply stunned into silence.

So here then are the things in my life, which has felt like the floor was taken out from under me, the world is an alien place, and grief so hard and deep, I thought I might never recover, but that are still true:

*It is still true that I have four amazing, loving children. Christopher, Andy, Katie, and Olivia. I also have the woman I call my daughter-by-proxy, Rayne, such a part of our lives that we have to, want to, include her as part of the family. They have all circled around me, as I have reached my arms around them.

*It is still true that I am surrounded by friends, students, and clients, some people who embody all three roles, who have stuck with me. The students and clients, in particular, have put up with my uneven schedule as emergencies happened while Michael was still alive, and personal crashes happened to me after his death. During that time, my life became about teaching in the morning, running to the hospital or rehab or taking Michael to appointments in the afternoon, then teaching in the evening and reading manuscripts into the night. These students and clients formed a meal chain. When I finished with my last morning client and ran out of the house to go to Michael, I always found a lunch already packed for me in a cooler by my garage. And I also found dinner, which I’d only have to heat up when I got home. Students also cleaned my house. I have never felt more cared for. During this entire time, AllWriters’ has not suffered. Everyone stayed beside me, making sure I could continue to do what I do best.

*It is still true that I have a roof over my head, even though it’s only me now that keeps it there.

*It is still true that during the time since Michael died in June of 2024, my novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, was released, and my poetry collection, Let Me Tell You, Let Me Sing!, was released. It is also true that another poetry collection, dedicated to Michael, The Birth Of A Widow, will be released in early 2026, and my next novel, Unique In All The World, will be released, likely in 2027, but the date is not determined yet. Which means that, despite a 3-month period where the only thing I could write was this blog, once a week, and even that was a challenge, and this was the only time I ever found myself in my entire life unable to write, it has returned to me. It is the part I identify myself as more than anything else: writer. And so it is still true that, despite all that has happened, I am still here.

I am so grateful for Maggie’s words, that allowed me to realize this, and encouraged me to look at what is still a constant in my life, instead of focusing so hard on what has been lost.

However.

I have not become the embodiment of a Hallmark Christmas movie. I decided, a bit ago, that we would have our Christmas tree in the condo this year. I did not put it up last year – I simply couldn’t. Michael loved Christmas, partly because his birthday is two days after Christmas, so he pushed that all the hoopla was about his birth, not…well, you know. But this year, I said, we’ll do it.

Earlier this week, late at night, when I was getting ready for bed, I sat on my seat in our reclining loveseat, and looked at the spot where the tree would go. And I realized this.

The last time the tree stood, an orange plump cat named Edgar Allen Paw, he of the multiple toes, took his place under and behind the tree, a place he declared as his own for fourteen years. In front of the fireplace, a small gray cat, whose size did not keep her from being queen of the household, took her place under the stockings and in front of the heat. Muse’s spot was there for twenty years. Huddled by my feet because she was scared of the Christmas tree, so scared she wouldn’t even grab her favorite food, French fries, that I put under it for her, was Ursula, our dog. Only with us for 7 years, she nonetheless had her own spot too, and is also solidly wedged in my heart. Beside me, in his seat on the reclining loveseat, was Michael. Alive and well. Writing on his computer, playing a word game on his phone, listening to an old time radio drama, watching the television, and smiling at me – all at the same time.

Instead, this year, when the tree goes up, there will undoubtedly be two young cats, Oliver and Cleo(catra), who I have named The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers, trying to climb the tree, batting the ornaments, and causing havoc. Which means I’ve devised a plan to put a hook in the exposed rafter above the tree and tie the top of the tree to that hook.

All of this means that my life is very different now. But it also means this:

While the floor was pulled out from under me, there is a new floor there. It’s different, but it’s solid. While the world is indeed alien from what I used to have, it’s becoming more familiar every day, and has many familiar parts to it that are still here. And while I am still sad, while there are still moments that literally knock me to my knees, I am recovering.

Above all, I am still me.

One foot in front of the other. I’m aching, but I am moving forward.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

From the past:

The present:

 

 

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

All four of my kids participated in music activities during their time in school. Three took piano lessons. In birth order, Christopher played the trumpet, Andy played the drums, Katie played the flute, and Olivia played (and still plays) the violin. She also took part in guitar and ukelele lessons, and for a bit, in middle school, was in chorus. Of the four, three actively listen to music today. The one who doesn’t prefers to listen to video game podcasts.

Music plays a big part for me as well, and always has. Like my son, I played the trumpet. I sang in chorus through high school. I wanted piano lessons, but because my brother was a talented organist and we had, first, the not-really-mighty Wurlitzer in our living room, and then the mighty Hammond, my parents said I could learn the organ, and my brother could be the teacher. I wanted no part of that. But when we were at the showroom, my parents contemplating buying the mighty Hammond, the very smart salesman saw me looking in the showcase at an autoharp. I told him my music teacher at school played one, and she let me strum it sometimes. When he told my parents that he would throw in the autoharp for me, if they purchased the Hammond, it sealed the deal. I strummed and sang with that instrument for years. But somewhere in my adult life, it disappeared…I don’t remember how. A few years ago, I found one that looked exactly like mine on a used instrument website. Michael bought it for me for Christmas, and so I have the comfort of it again.

I took piano lessons for about a year. But then there was Michael’s accident, and I ended up quitting due to lack of time and extreme stress. Since Michael’s death, I haven’t yet returned to lessons, even though my teacher has encouraged me, and I look longingly at my piano every now and then. Maybe it will come back, as time passes and memories soften.

But this week, years after I watched my kids in concert, I watched my granddaughter, Grandgirl Maya Mae. She’s in her second year of playing the viola. I watched her last year too, in her first year, and I was thrilled to see her focused concentration, followed by the smile of accomplishment after every song.

I had a client right before this year’s concert began, and I knew time was going to be pressing, but I was determined. I said goodbye to my student on Zoom, ran (carefully) down the stairs, grabbed my purse and keys, and took off. My son Christopher, Maya’s daddy, and my daughter Olivia kept me aware of the minutes by messaging me: “They’re warming up!” “The 7^th grade orchestra is on the stage!” “Mom’s gotta go fast!” “You got this, Mom!”

I got there right before they started their first song. The lights were already out in the auditorium. I spotted my kids and took off down the aisle, only to discover that the sloped aisle wasn’t sloped; it had steps. I stumbled, but didn’t fall, slid into my seat, and breathed a sigh of relief.

What Grandma Kathie wants, Grandma Kathie gets. I didn’t miss a note. And my granddaughter was easy to find – she was front and center, first row, right in front of the director. I saw every facial expression, a lifted eyebrow, a toss of the hair, the way she lifted the viola and tucked it under her chin, the other arm rising, poised, graceful, holding the bow. And then the smooth back and forth as that bow, under my granddaughter’s spell, made those strings sing.

The smile of accomplishment. And the joy.

The joy is the most important thing of all. I saw it on all of my kids’ faces. And I remember feeling it. That moment when all of the music, all of the parts, blend together and become one big harmonious sound, which is only possible because you are playing with others. You are cooperating with others. You aren’t showing off, you aren’t not giving enough, you are adding as a solid group to make a sound, to play a song.

It’s teamwork, without being in a sport. And you can hear the result all around you.

This is one good thing about getting older. I can see the generations, literally see the connections, and watch as time goes on, and influences continue to trickle down. The generation before me, in my family, loved and participated in music. My brother and I participated. My kids have. And now…my granddaughter.

Two of my students recently joined a choir, and they just had their first concert.

Maybe I’ll take a step toward my piano.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

There are times I am phenomenally grateful that I’m a Waltons fan. I can recite every episode along with the actors. I’ve visited the real Waltons Mountain, which is in Schuyler, West Virginia. I met Earl Hamner’s sister, who happily showed me what a trailing arbutus is. I corrected the museum tour guide. Earl Hamner himself friended me on Facebook, before he died. I own the Waltons Barbie-esque dolls. I own the lunchbox, the game, the books, and on and on. And I met Richard Thomas, who played John Boy, a few years ago, when he came through playing Atticus Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird. I own the book of poetry he wrote while he was still on the show and he signed it. I gave him a copy of Hope Always Rises.

Yes, there’s a point here.

This week, today, in fact, I got slammed with a shock. About a month ago, I received a letter from the Social Security Administration. After Michael died, I was stunned to find out that there is something called survivor benefits. Basically, a widow or widower receives benefits from the spouse’s Social Security. I’d never heard of such a thing, and I’m grateful to the funeral home, who informed me of it. I visited my local office and was amazed and grateful to find out that it’s a real thing, and so I began to receive benefits.

Because I own a small business, my income is up, down, and all around, at best. Now that I’m totally self-supporting, having this help means a lot.

Then this letter came. I earned too much, it said. I have to pay back almost five thousand dollars.

What?

I figured it was a joke, but I made an appointment and went in to the local office again. A very nice, and sympathetic, woman explained to me that I have a cap as to what I can earn, and I earned just under five thousand dollars too much. We went over my taxes and my profit and loss statement.

And so, well, yeah. Gotta pay it.

And the kicker? If I was 67 years old, instead of 65, it wouldn’t matter what I earn. They no longer insist you only make so much.

I staggered out of the office.

This was combined this week with a discussion I had with a non-writer. We were talking about the goals I’ve had in my life, and I told her that my number one goal, for pretty much as long as I can remember, is to be on the New York Times Bestseller List.

When I was a kid, you really weren’t taught to read until the first grade. So I read Dick and Jane and Sally and Spot and Puff, and then immediately zoomed upward in ability. I was reading at an adult level. My first grade teacher used her lunch hour once a week to drive me to the high school library to search out books that would be at my ability, but wouldn’t have topics that I wasn’t emotionally ready for yet. Mrs. Knuti was amazing. So was the librarian at the public library, who helped me search out the same thing. Because of reading these books, and the authors’ bios, I was only six years old when I learned about the bestseller list. I began to write and dream, and that list became my lifelong goal.

So now I’m 65 and I haven’t yet hit that goal. I think about that and sigh a lot. The non-writer reminded me that I have 16 books published, #17 will be out in early 2026, and #18 is sitting on my publisher’s desk, waiting for an answer. I’ve won awards. Yada, yada, yada.

I shrugged. Shrugged!

The non-writer asked what percentage of writers make it onto the bestseller list. I didn’t know, and so I did a little research.

To be on the bestseller list, you have to sell 5000 books in one week. Of the published hardcover books released each year, .5% (that’s POINT 5 percent, not 5 percent) will land on the bestseller list. Of all the books, from all writers, all genres, and all methods of publishing, of the 3 million books published each year, less than 6240 will land on the bestseller list.

In other words, it’s next to impossible to accomplish this. And I’ve been holding it as my lifelong goal for, well, just about sixty years. All but the first five years of my life.

It was the first time I staggered this week.

After I stumbled home from the Social Security office, counting dollars and cents in my head, figuring where this almost five grand was going to come from, I sat down at my desk and stared at my computer. I turned in my chair and I looked at my shelf of my own books. They stand proudly between the A to Z bookends that Michael gave me for Christmas one year, after I told him that I coveted the bookends featured in Dr. Bob Hartley’s office from the old The Bob Newhart Show, where he played a psychologist.

Just above this shelf is another shelf, holding the photograph of me with Richard Thomas, the signed poetry book, the Waltons board game, and the Waltons lunchbox.

And I remembered an episode of the Waltons. It was called “The Prophecy”. In it, John Boy is in college, and a professor stops to talk to him, asking him what else he’s planning to do besides write. He tells John Boy that, at that moment in time, there are 10,000 unemployed writers in the United States. John Boy is stunned. Kinda like I was today.

He comes home and sits on the front steps. With a stick, he writes 10,000, in the dirt. His youngest brother Jim Bob comes up, reads the number, and the following conversation takes place. (Yes, I own a copy of the script. I have several.)

Jim-Bob: Ten thousand what?

John-Boy: Ten thousand unemployed writers in this country today.

Jim-Bob: That’s silly.

John-Boy (exasperated): What’s silly about ten thousand unemployed writers?

Jim-Bob: Just because you’re nineteen years old, doesn’t mean everyone else is dumb.

John-Boy: I never said you were dumb.

John-Boy: Well, the way you tell it, a writer is somebody who’s supposed to be somebody who thinks things up and puts ’em on paper.

Jim-Bob: Well, what’s that got to do with anything?

John-Boy: Somebody like that is working for himself, isn’t he?

John-Boy: Of course he’s working for himself, he has to work for himself.

Jim-Bob: If he’s working for himself, how can he be out of a job?

John Boy looks into space for a moment, and then kicks the number 10,000 into oblivion.

I thought about this episode, looking into space, just like John Boy just did. And then my eyes dropped back down to my book shelf.

16 books. 8 novels, 2 short story collections, 1 essay collection, 5 books of poetry. Another book already on the way, and hopefully, one more.

And what can’t be seen: all the short stories, poems, and essays in magazines and anthologies.

Maybe, maybe, maybe I should kick the New York Times Bestseller List into oblivion. Maybe. Some habits are hard to give up. Some goals are hard to give up. And sometimes, you just have to look at a problem dead on and take care of it.

Do I still have to pay Social Security back? Yes.

Am I on the New York Times Bestseller List? No.

But I feel better.

Thank you, John Boy. And Earl Hamner. And Richard Thomas.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

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

Recently, I was at an event here called China Lights. It’s held at a botanical garden, and it’s an amazing visual spectacle of huge lit sculptures. There is also a live show, showing Chinese acrobatics. It’s all outside, and it’s cold, but it’s worth it.

I was there with a few of my kids and my granddaughter. Right before we left, I decided I had to get one more photo. Near the beginning of the spectacle was a display of Chinese zodiac, that included lit signs of what each one meant. I was born in the year of the rat, and the very first possibility of a career listed was Writer. I wanted a photo, just to show I’d fulfilled expectations, and that sometimes, being a rat isn’t so bad. I told my kids I’d be right back.

We were in a dark area. I didn’t see a set of three stairs that led up into the exhibit. There was no railing, no reflective paint or tape, and no one went in front of me, so I could have seen the movement upward. I tripped on the stairs and went down. Hard. My head snapped forward and bounced off of a brick sidewalk.

Oh, the blood.

A man yelled, “Are you okay?” and came running toward me. My kids came running too. My glasses were broken, but luckily, the glass remained intact. I had a gash in my forehead, my knees were wobbling, and I was pretty much a wreck.

Eventually, we got sorted out. As we went through the exit, two employees grabbed a first aid kit and taped me up with butterfly bandages and handed me an icepack and a handful of gauze. We headed off to the closest Emergency Department.

I was put through a CT scan (that was interesting) and an x-ray. I received 6 stitches in my forehead, a diagnosis of whiplash from the force of my head snapping and hitting the brick, a bruised bone in one finger, and badly bruised knees. Other than for surgeries, I’d never had stitches before. I can’t say I want them again any time soon. They hurt going in, and they ITCH.

And with all of this, you’re probably saying, “Where the heck is the Moment of Happiness in breaking your head on a brick sidewalk?”

The Moment came when the woman arrived to take down all of my information, with her little rolling laptop. We went through the usual; name, birthdate, address, phone number, email. I was very relieved I remembered them all. I also told her the year and who the president is. And then she asked me the question I hadn’t yet been asked since June 19^th, 2024.

“Marital status?”

The letter M came out of my mouth, and then I stopped. She turned to look at me, and my face, besides looking like I’d met a brick sidewalk, must have looked shell-shocked. I clenched my fists, and then replaced the letter M with a W. “I’m widowed,” I said.

As if there weren’t enough tears already on this night, now there were more, from a very different sort of pain.

I’d never said that word out loud.

She abandoned her laptop and came to sit beside me. She took my hand, being careful to hold it lightly, as it was the hand with the bruised finger. “How long?” she asked.

“One year and four months,” I said.

She gave me a hug. She didn’t ask for any more details. But she did say, “Despite what I have to put on the form, you can still be married, you know. You’re married to him for as long as your heart says so.”

Kindness. Absolute, pure kindness.

I’d like to say it took away all the physical pain I was feeling, but it didn’t. That would be too Hallmark TV. But it took away the sting of that word, and I felt a strong sense of relief.

 

Her words have stayed with me. I am still married to Michael. My heart says so.

On an evening a couple nights ago, right before getting ready for bed, I turned off the television. I had one orange cat on my lap. The other orange cat was sitting on my right, on the little console between my recliner and Michael’s. I looked at his recliner, which was empty. I looked at the floor in front of our coffee table, which was my dog Ursula’s favorite place to lay when I was in the living room. It was empty too.

Out loud, I said, “How did I get here? How did I become a 65-year old woman who lives alone with cats?”

Just a short time ago, I had a dog.

And a little longer of a short time ago, I had a husband.

The tears welled again, but then I remembered the woman’s words. I am still married to Michael as long as my heart says so.

It says so.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

A miracle happened. Just yesterday!

Wednesdays are typically my busiest day of the week. I have three clients in the morning, from 9:00 to noon, followed by setting up the classroom for a class that meets from 1:00 to 3:00, then typically a chiropractor appointment at 3:30, back home in time for clients at 4:30, 6:00, and 7:00. The rest of the evening is spent reading manuscripts for the next day. Often, by the time I’m done setting up the classroom, which involves making the coffee, setting out the snacks, and setting up the laptop for those who are Zooming in, I have a half an hour left to make my lunch and eat it. This usually includes checking my email on my phone, just in case there’s a fire to be put out, and then, with whatever time I have left to chew and swallow, I read whatever book I’m currently reading for fun.

But yesterday, the miracle started to unfold when my 11:00 client was finished early. I set up the classroom, only making one pot of coffee, because I knew those students that were attending that day would not drink decaf. I got back upstairs to make my lunch at just after noon. I sat down to eat, discovered I didn’t have any new emails, and so I opened my book and read.

When I finished my last bite, I closed my book and glanced at the time, prepared to leap off the barstool and rush through putting my dishes in the dishwasher, refilling my water, yelling goodbye to the cats, and hustling downstairs.

But…it was only 12:30. 12:30!

I had an entire half hour…thirty minutes…1800 seconds…

…to simply READ. For FUN.

In the middle of the day. In the middle of the week. At a time that was not a day off or a vacation.

I grabbed my book and reopened it.

And then I noticed I was still sitting at the island, even though I was no longer having lunch. My eyes slid to the left and I saw my recliner. No cat was upon it. Then my eyes slid to the right and I saw my gas fireplace.

In seconds, I had the fireplace on. I was in my recliner, footrest up, blanket draped over me, a fresh cup of hot coffee within easy reach, along with four orange Oreos, and my book, my glorious, glorious book, open in front of me.

The cats looked shocked.

This. Never. Happens.

It was particularly delicious because this novel, which I’d been waiting for and waiting for, showed up at my doorstep the day before. I was already having an absolute ball with this book. That may sound odd, having a ball with a book, as opposed to having a ball with company or at an event. But books for me are just…Oh, heaven. Some books are a joy to read. Others are work, but worthwhile, rewarding work, to read. And some are a joy and work.

And others…I just put down. I used to insist on reading every book to the end, even if I wasn’t having a good time with it at all, because, obviously, I love and respect writers. I honor them. And I honor their work. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that life is too short to read a book that you’re not totally committed to. To read a book that is not totally committed to you, the reader.

This is one of those books that I am not only committed to, I am besotted. I would read this book straight through, if only I had the time.

But for now, on that day, a day that I typically don’t even have time to breathe before I’m off to the next thing on my to-do list, I had 30 glorious, unexpected, unplanned for, minutes.

I could have wept, except I didn’t want to waste any of the minutes by not being able to read through the tears.

And so, I read, in the middle of my Wednesday. I read, I sipped, I munched, and I smiled.

The smile continued for the rest of the day, long after I set the book down to go downstairs and teach.

(I read some more, in bed, before I went to sleep.)

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(By the way, if you love books like I do, the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books is coming up on November 7 and 8! I will be there both days, moderating, presenting, talking, signing…come on out! It’s a free event, and the largest Wisconsin book festival under one roof! www.sewibookfest.com)