A few months ago, the Montana Book Festival 2021(MBF) was on tap to offer in-person and online events. Then in August, rising COVID rates in Missoula County compelled the MBFBoard of Directors to shift the entire Festival to virtual events.
On Saturday, October 16, China Reevers hosted the Montana Book Festival 2021 conversation with Eileen Garvin and me—“With a Little Help from My Friends: Writing Fictional Friendships.” I loved chatting with Eileen about our books—The Music of Bees and Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools—and the craft of writing. Our respective readings were highlights as well. In addition, the virtual format reached a wider audience, and the event was later uploaded to the Montana Book Festival’s YouTube channel.
Perhaps you didn’t have the opportunity to tune in. Or maybe you did, but you would like to revisit these questions:
Amy Knutson gourd and Karen Buley mirror
How did gourds, mirrors and a tweet shape Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools? What sounds like the parking lot behind the 7-Eleven? What might a budding orthopedic surgeon practice on? How long do honeybees live?
Find out the answers to these questions and more on the video below!
The past eighteen months reinforced the notion that life doesn’t always go according to plan. As Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools neared its pub date in spring, 2020, I envisioned a book release party. In addition to a short reading, there would be food, drink and conversation—a tribute to the lively evenings my characters shared throughout the book. I pictured additional book readings to follow. Then COVID-19 reared its ugly head.
Montana Gov. Steve Bullock ordered a temporary shelter-in-place. As I wrote here, I had much to be thankful for. Thus, scrapping a book launch seemed a small price to pay. While I hunkered in, I scoured how-to guides on do-it-yourself book trailers. Both teacher and student, this was my result.
Five months after Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools made its quiet entrance into the world, I hunkered in again—this time in an assisted living neighborhood. My eighty-nine-year-old mother had broken her pelvis. Though Touchmark, her senior living community, was locked down, administration welcomed me in as her essential caregiver.
Karen and Kay October 27, 2020
Once our two-week cautionary quarantine ended, we walked in and around the community, both with and without her physical therapist. My mom’s pelvic fractures healed in the fourteen weeks she and I bunked together. Sadly, her dementia worsened.
The week before she moved into a memory care unit, Mom had a front-row seat at the inaugural reading of Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools. Touchmark’s COVID-19 precautions remained in place, so the group was limited to a small number of masked and socially distanced residents.
Wearing both mask and face shield, I gazed at the audience and contemplated my mom. Her sparkling blue eyes shone with pride. As I began to read, a rush of heat coursed through me. I was reading to two of my biggest fans—one in person and the other in spirit. Mom’s eyes flickered shut at times, but she beamed during the applause.
Nearly eight months have passed since, heavyhearted, I packed my bags and returned home. The weeks I spent with my mom, culminating with two nights in memory care, were priceless. I treasure our continued visits. But with the uptick in Montana’s COVID-19 cases, I pray her community will not have to endure another lockdown.
This year’s festival pivoted from a hybrid in-person and online affair to an entirely virtual event. But again, as thousands continue to lose loved ones and struggle in innumerable ways, foregoing an in-person book event feels like a small price to pay.
My parents modeled flexibility and resilience. They also taught me the art of friendship. As a young girl, I didn’t realize the lessons I was gleaning when they hosted an array of friends in our cozy Missoula home. Three or four families would gather, assembling double-digit numbers of offspring. We kids would spill outside and engage in noisy games—the grown-ups settling occasional skirmishes—and some of those kids remain my lifelong friends.
A few years later in Butte, I remember watching with envy as my mom’s “Club” convened at our house. My father would scoot out before the first guest arrived. My siblings and I were allowed a bit of time with the ladies before they broke out the pinochle cards. Then, we would head upstairs to our bedrooms. Peals of laughter, the clink of ice cubes and wafts of cigarette smoke followed us up.
During our shared weeks at Touchmark, my mom didn’t always remember who I was. Sometimes she thought I was her friend Shirley. The name always made me smile. Two of the moms from those early Missoula years were named Shirley. But I was Shirley Reinig, a member of “The Church Ladies”—a newer group of Helena friends. My mom and Shirley were retired nurses and on occasion, Mom worried that we had to go to work. One night, she called from the bedroom minutes after I had helped her tuck into bed. “Shirley?”
Despite the dim light, I could see her furrowed brow as I approached the bed. She didn’t wait for me to respond before rushing, “Do you think we’re going to get canned?”
“No.” I stroked her cheek. “We have the night off.”
“Oh good.” She smiled, then closed her eyes.
Three of “The Church Ladies” celebrating Kay’s 90th birthday. Kay Antonietti, Shirley Reinig and Joanne Anderson-July 25, 2021
Yes, life doesn’t always go according to plan. So we pivot or punt and, if we’re lucky, we have memories to hold dear. I will forever cherish the irreplaceable weeks I spent with my mom. Lines from the movie Airplane hold new meaning now. And discovering that Mom would be moving into a memory care unit with two other Shirleys felt serendipitous.
Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools is dedicated
To My Friends New, Old, and In-Between
On October 16 at 2:00 PM MDT, Eileen Garvin and I will chat about crafting fictional friendships. Registration is free. So whether you live in Grants Pass, New York City or places in between, I hope you’ll join us.
My eighty-seven-year-old father waved a greeting card over his shoulder one summer afternoon. “All those letters I sent your grandmother are up in the garage.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had them. Should I get ‘em down?”
“Not now.”
I recalled his casual comments about writing to Nana every day while he was in the Army. She had been a sentimental saver. My dad and mom were too.
Dubbed “Papa and Gram” following the arrival of grandchildren, my parents had amassed two file cabinets full of greeting cards and mementoes. An array of manila folders, labeled in Papa’s perfect handwriting, peppered our laps and the living room floor. A brother, his two prepubescent daughters, Papa, Gram and I perused the folders’ contents. Birthday and holiday cards, get-well wishes and retirement congratulations painted snapshots of the previous years.
Papa died sixteen months later. The letters he had sent Nana sat untouched in the rafters for another year-and-a-half. Then, after Gram moved into a senior living community, six of my siblings and I gathered to clear out the family home. The box of letters made the cut, and I carried them into Gram’s two-bedroom apartment that evening.
During my overnight visits with her throughout the next eighteen months, we reveled in those letters.
January 24, 1947 letter from Kumagaya, Japan
Penned by eighteen-and nineteen-year-old Private—and later Private First Class—Dan Antonietti, the careful cursive portrayed a son and brother’s loving devotion. Every missive also acknowledged his Butte, Montana neighbors.
Dan Antonietti, Japan
Sprinkled throughout were mentions of his fierce bonds with his cohorts and dog.
Dan Antonietti and buddies, JapanDan Antonietti, 3rd from leftDan Antonietti, Ingle and Rivets. Kumagaya, Japan, 1947
Papa Dan’s love, loyalty and generous spirit blossomed as he became an uncle, husband, father and grandfather. On quiet evenings when Gram and I devoured his letters, we basked in memories of his attentiveness and grace.
Four-and-a-half years have passed since we lost our Papa. Gram is in her third apartment in the senior living community, having segued from independent living to assisted living to memory care. Outside her door, a picture of her and Papa complements her biography.
Dan & Kay Antonietti, Seattle 1965
Sometimes she remembers Papa is gone, other times she does not. But the picture—which she often refers to as “our first date”—always makes her smile.
I shelved cartloads of books in the Hellgate High School library this week. An assortment of fiction, nonfiction and graphic novels, the books were a confirmation that reading was alive and well and that we were moving toward pre-pandemic days.
Book checkouts had increased in February when we reinstated independent browsing. Lingering reminders of the COVID-19 pandemic remain though: disinfectant, hand sanitizer and alcohol wipes scattered throughout the library; masked students and staff; plexiglass barriers framing the circulation desk; social-distancing signs and one-chair-per-table workstations.
Hellgate High School Library
Two weeks ago, a senior greeted me with smiling eyes when I entered a bathroom near the neighboring Commons. ”I want to thank you librarians,” Kara said. “People talk about essential workers—like firemen and grocery store clerks and frontline workers—but I want to say, ‘what about librarians?’” She waved a hand. “You guys do so much and are essential…for knowledge. So, thank you!”
Her words upheld an article I had read days earlier, School Libraries Are the Bedrock of Freedom. As the authors state, “[Benjamin] Franklin’s belief—that libraries and education are crucial to democracy—has never been more true than in our current age of disinformation, with the threat it poses to the republic.”
Kara’s words reminded me, too, of a post I had written in 2015. My words, “She, and others, continue to affirm my conviction that libraries and books are two of our most precious resources,” ring truer now than ever before.
HHS library circulation desk
Protocols for the 2021-2022 school year are yet to unfold. I am hopeful that by August the plexiglass barriers and social-distancing signs will come down. Chairs will again bookend our tables. Our circulation desks will be busier than even before. And masks will be distant memories. I miss seeing faces and sharing smiles.
I am four-plus weeks into my gig as an essential caregiver for my eighty-nine-year-old mother. Sitting in her dentist’s reception area while my sister scheduled a return appointment, Mom felt “dizzy,” so stood for reasons unknown. Up one moment, down the next, then an ambulance transported her to the hospital because she could not bear weight on her right leg.
She fractured her pelvis in two places. Neither break required surgery, but she was admitted for therapy and pain management. More lucid than not while she was in the Emergency Department (ED), Mom was not granted an essential caregiver beyond the ED due to COVID-19 visitor restrictions. A bed alarm, a video camera, and a room near the nurses’ station superseded having a family member at the bedside.
Three days later, I was allowed into the hospital for discharge instructions. COVID-19 visitor restrictions were in place at Mom’s senior living community too. But administration gave me permission—following a COVID-19 test—to quarantine with her and help with rehab.
Sometimes Mom remembers why we’re roommates in her assisted living apartment. Other times she does not. Some days I’m “Karen.” Other days I’m not.
She had a walker before her fall, but it sat—unused —outside her door. Mom was given a slower, two-wheel walker in the hospital, which she uses in her apartment. Last week she graduated to her four-wheel walker for outdoor treks and walks around the community. But she doesn’t always remember she needs wheels whenever she’s up.
“Who’s the little lady that belongs to that?” she asked days ago, pointing to the two-wheel walker parked beside her dinette table.
“You’re the little lady that belongs to that. Steady Eddie,” I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re Steady, and this is Eddie.” I patted the walker. “You two are a team.”
“Oh, my,” Mom said with a grin.
Mom and her wheels
This Thanksgiving week, we’ll celebrate what would have been my dad’s ninety-third birthday. And we’ll offer prayers of gratitude for Mom’s continued healing and our sweet bonding time.
Growing up in Butte, Montana, I learned invaluable lessons from my parents, Dan and Kay Antonietti. Lifelong Catholics and Democrats, they taught me and my seven siblings fundamental values like honesty, compassion, integrity, fairness, generosity and respect. They taught us to “love thy neighbor as thyself.” In their messages to my twelve-year-old self, they wrote “be charitable to all.” And when we recited The Pledge of Allegiance, they affirmed that “liberty and justice for all” meant exactly that. All.
As we close in on the 2020 election, thoughts of my dad and mom swirl through my mind. So too do memories of Montana’s 2017 congressional special election. Embracing the principles instilled during my youth, I campaigned hard for the Democratic candidate. I phone banked, knocked doors, and tabled at the University of Montana. I harnessed my son Eric’s courage and graduated into solo door-knocking excursions, something I thought I would never do. I described my trajectory here.
But amid the coronavirus pandemic, I’ve scrapped door knocking this year. Instead, I’m phone banking alone at the dining room table. I’ve penned two hundred postcards, displayed yard signs and bumper stickers, and written a letter to the editor.
Postcards to Swing States
Our Papa died in January 2017. A World War II veteran, he was elected State Commander of Montana VFW in 1991. He later served as Montana VFW’s Legislative Chairman. Throughout his last twenty years, he testified on veterans’ behalf at both the national and state levels. Always his helpmate, Gram was his constant advocacy partner for the last seven.
In 2015, Gov. Steve Bullock invited my parents to Montana’s capitol. Though they had been there countless times, I had the honor of accompanying them on that special occasion. Gov. Bullock commended my dad for his years-long dedication to veterans and their families. Acknowledging my mom’s steadfast support, he thanked her too. Their humble pride was palpable. So was Gov. Bullock’s admiration.
Gov. Steve Bullock and Dan Antonietti, July 2015
Kay Antonietti, Gov. Steve Bullock, Dan Antonietti, Karen Buley
Now Governor Steve Bullock is running for U.S. Senate. Montana’s Lt. Governor, Mike Cooney, a Butte native like my parents, is running for governor. And Kathleen Williams, a three-term Montana legislator, is running for Congress. During the years Papa navigated the halls of Montana’s capitol, he visited with all three. He would be so proud to vote for each of them in 2020, as well as other Democrats up and down the ballot.
Cooney. Bullock. Williams. 2020
Gram turned eighty-nine in August. Her memory fluctuates, but she remembers I’ve been phone banking for Montana’s Democratic candidates. She often asks, “Did you get everything done?” Occasionally she’ll pause, then add “for the election?” When I say I’m making calls one night a week, her reply is always the same. “God love you. I hope they win.”
Kay Antonietti, Spring Meadow Lake State Park
In the quiet of my heart, I hear Papa echo her words.
I met baby Anaya during a Zoom liturgy yesterday. Eight days old, the dark-haired, sleeping newborn rushed a swell of nostalgia.
Throughout my nursing career, there were two days each year when attending births bore special significance. July 20—my birthday and the anniversary of Neil Armstrong’s historic walk on the moon—and Labor Day.
A pair of other dates grew in magnitude, too. August 4—Eric’s birthday—and then Colin’s birthday on July 8. I will never forget the bolt of realization as I followed our Lamaze teacher into OB one summer evening in 1987. I’m not giving this tour, I’m on this tour. That night, I looked around the birthing room with a new perspective.
Matthew, Nicholas, Heavenly, Kyle, Adam, Ty, Amanda, Eric, Allison, and Jared
I have a wealth of joyful memories from the years I spent teaching Lamaze classes, parenting, and caring for both pregnant women and new moms and their babies.
Colin, Karen, and Eric 1992Andrew, Karen, and Melissa July 23, 2005
Now, we are in the midst of a global pandemic. Face-to-face childbirth education classes have been suspended. In addition, hospitals have adopted zero-visitor protocols to protect against exposure to COVID-19. Obstetrics units, like my old stomping grounds at Community Medical Center, generally allow laboring and postpartum mothers to have one support person with them throughout their stay.
On this Labor Day, I extend birthday wishes to Rachel Grace, born twenty-six years ago to my former coworker Mary. And to Mary and all healthcare workers, thank you for the vital work you do.
Thanks, too, to union representatives who fight for workers and communities and for a better life for all. According to a recent Gallup poll, 65 percent of Americans approve of labor unions, the highest percentage since 2003.
Lastly, thank you to my parents. Born and raised in Butte, Montana, they taught me so much, including the rich history and importance of unions. Though my dad traded his plumber’s toolbox for a briefcase in 1964, he maintained his membership in the United Association of Plumbers and Pipefitters until he died in 2017.
Dan Antonietti
My mom’s tales of her student nurse and RN days sparked my interest in her profession. And when I became a nursing student and was tasked to assist in a childbirth education class, she was the instructor.
Kay Antonietti
At eighty-nine, she still gets a twinkle in her eye when she regales me with her stories.
I rediscovered two messages from my parents in my Log -o-Life. My “baby book,” its four-page index implies a long and productive life. Numerous pages are incomplete. Some are not applicable, like “Doctor of Philosophy Diploma” and “Military Record.” Others reference experiences that slipped by, unrecorded: High School Activities, Transcript of College Credits, Publications, and more. The Middle Age Photo page is blank. And though there are seven pages for autographs, there is a single entry. Laurie Antonietti – 11/10/69.
Karen & Laurie Antonietti 1965
Dan & Kay Antonietti 1965
My parents penned their notes on my dad’s forty-first birthday—November 25, 1968. My mom was thirty-seven. Written to a preadolescent baby boomer, their words are precious. Many are timeless.
“The game of life is a challenge. Especially for your generation. Play it fair and always play it to the best of your ability. Retain your faith, be charitable to all and refuse to do wrong.”
“Stand by your convictions and what you have been taught and know what is right – always be charitable to all – and honest with yourself and others, and just always do your best.”
Dan, Karen, & Kay Antonietti 1970
My dad has been gone three and a half years.
My mom, on the cusp of her eighty-ninth birthday, lives at Touchmark, a senior living community. COVID-19 restrictions have limited her interactions with family and non-Touchmark friends. Aside from a pair of respites piggybacked onto medical appointments, she has had one outing since March. Following a doctor visit three weeks ago, she waited in the car while I ran into Target. She needed laundry detergent, but I had to remind her she could not go into the store.
When I returned to the car, she said, “A lot of people aren’t wearing those things…I can’t believe it.” She pointed to her mask. “We might have this for the rest of our lives.” She sighed. “Do you think they’ll be able to have the wedding?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
Mom’s memory waxes and wanes, and sometimes she struggles with words. But she remembered something about the pandemic. And her thoughts swung to the granddaughter who had already rescheduled her wedding once.
When I reread these words from long ago, I was reminded of our conversation in the Target parking lot. If my dad had been in the car with us, he would have echoed what my mom tried to say.
My friend Carol emailed to ask if I would boycott Facebook for its inadequate removal of hate speech.
Her question sparked a childhood memory. We met in Catholic school when I was the “new girl” in third grade. The following year, she and I sprawled on the shag carpet in my family’s dining room. Carol told me one of our classmates taunted her during recess.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I’m colored.”
I don’t remember my reply. Honestly, I am not even sure I did reply. I didn’t know words like empathy or racism. But I remember feeling a wave of emotions for her and a flash of anger toward the boy that hurled the hurtful words. Carol’s parents were born in the Philippines. Until that day, though, I never noticed she and I were different colors.
Fifty-five years later, people are still being harassed—and murdered—because of the color of their skin. In the wake of the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Elijah McClain, Rashad Brooks, and so many others, sorrow and rage have swept the country. Cries for equity and justice abound.
Carol’s email arrived the day hundreds of companies began a Stop Hate for Profit advertising boycott. Businesses united “to force Mark Zuckerberg to address the effect that Facebook has had on our society.”
I wrote I had never paid for advertising nor made any purchases via Facebook. “I hope more companies pull their ads and join the boycott, though.” I added, “I like posts about marches and activism opportunities, links to articles, and connections with family and friends.”
“Couldn’t FB members do a 3-day boycott?” she replied.
Her suggestion felt huge. And my Facebook reach felt small. In addition, I often used Facebook numerous times each day between my personal page and two public pages.
In previous weeks though, heartbreaking images and accounts of racism and police brutality—on television and online and in print—spurred me to commit to antiracism. I had attended Black Lives Matter protests and made additional donations to organizations fighting for equity and justice. Carol asked for more.
And we had a bond that began in 1964 when my family relocated to my parents’ hometown of Butte, Montana.
The day after her query, I replied I would promote a boycott. A pair of New York Times articles days later strengthened my resolve.
“very disappointing”
Civil rights groups called a July 7 meeting with Facebook’s top executives, Mark Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg, “very disappointing.” Derrick Johnson, President and CEO of the N.A.A.C.P., said, “They lack this cultural sensitivity to understand that their platform is actually being used to cause harm, or they understand the harm that the platform is causing and they have chosen to take the profit as opposed to protecting the people.”
On July 8, Facebook released the findings of a two-year audit examining its policies. According to its handpicked auditors Laura W. Murphy and Megan Cacace, lawyers and civil rights experts, “Facebook has made policy and enforcement choices that leave our election exposed to interference by the president and others who seek to use misinformation to sow confusion and suppress voting.”
The July 8 article quoted Vanita Gupta, President and CEO of the Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights: “As long as the platform is being weaponized to spread hate and violence, harm vulnerable communities, and undermine our democracy, we will continue to hold the platform accountable.”
Together
As individuals, we too can join in efforts to hold Facebook accountable. Please sign the #StopHateforProfit petition. And add your name to a letter thanking businesses for putting principles above profits.
On July 27,please join a 3-day #NoHateorDisinformation Facebook boycott. That day, Mark Zuckerberg and CEOs of Amazon, Apple, and Alphabet’s Google will testify before Congress in an antitrust hearing.
Using the above graphic for your profile picture—either as a temporary or ongoing photo—will add power to our collective action. Give yourself a three-day pause from Facebook and perhaps all social media.
Go for a walk
Read
Listen to music or a podcast
Dance
Spend time with family or friends—four-legged or two-legged
Garden
Draw or write or color or paint
Connect with others virtually or via phone, email, or letters
Meditate
Create found object art or a word collage
Bake or prepare a special meal
Text or email photos or videos of your boycott creations or activities
Be still. And listen.
We are not born with prejudice or hate in our hearts, and we are all human. Some of us even share the same soul.
Thank you for joining the July 27-29 boycott to urge Facebook to ban hate speech and disinformation. Together, may we make the world a safer and more humane place.
Montana is three weeks into Phase One reopening amidst COVID-19. During our previous shelter-in-place order, outdoor exercise was acceptable while we adhered to social distancing guidelines and limited groups to ten or less. In our state dubbed “Big Sky Country,” access to public lands abounds.
Yesterday, inspired by a friend’s Facebook photo posted days earlier, I drove ten miles from home to Mount Jumbo. A plethora of vehicles filled the small parking area and lined both sides of Lincoln Hills Drive. I eased into an empty spot, then crossed to the trailhead. Arrowleaf balsamroot blanketed the hillside, and birdsong filled the air.
The North Loop Trail, new to me, extended right and left. I turned right. Then, at a T-intersection, I left the wide, logging-road grade for a narrower, steeper path—the Woods Gulch – Sheep Mountain Trail. Considering the number of cars and trucks parked below, I encountered far fewer people during my eighty-minute meandering than I expected.
A lone hiker and dog bypassed me as I stopped to take photos. Along the way, I met two more solitary hikers, three groups of mountain bikers, three parties of hikers, and three more dogs. An abundance of wildflowers and spring growth peppered the mountain. I’m grateful for the family of four and later, a group of friends, that schooled me on arnica, shooting stars, larkspur, a ballhead waterleaf, and prairie stars.
Shooting stars
Arnica
Ballhead waterleaf
I stood more than six feet away and secured my mask while we chatted. A blue surgical mask, it was one I’d worn to a cesarean birth years ago. Occasionally, I’d bring my used masks and disposable, bouffant caps home and add them to the dress-up clothes. I had no idea those old masks would be reused as personal protective equipment—PPE—years later.
On the fortieth anniversary of Mount St. Helens eruption, I’m reminded of quarantine and masks. As a practicing RN, I was deemed an essential worker, though I don’t recall if that was the term used to give me permission to leave my home and traverse our ash-covered city. The restrictions were short-lived in 1980, unlike the path we’re navigating today.
Our trajectory through the COVID-19 pandemic is fluid as new data unfolds. My mom, a resident of a senior living community one hundred twenty miles away, has been quarantined since March 14th. I applaud the care to keep her and her cohorts safe, but I miss her. Until our state reaches Phase Three of the reopening plan though, quarantine for such communities will continue. So I savor daily phone calls with Mom and look forward to the day we can be together again.
Mom and I at 2020 Montana Women’s March
In the meantime, I’ll practice social distancing, wear a mask in public, and relish the beauty and birdsong around me.
