Truth. Lies. Priceless Memories.

Mothers, , , , , , , , , , ,

When I was young, I never dreamed that one day, fibbing to my mom would be better than telling her the truth. Instead, I strived to dodge that age-old, childhood taunt: Liar liar pants on fire.

I’d be lying now though if I said that fibs never crossed my lips. In fact, before I aged into double digits, I would silently breathe that insult to myself whenever a Catholic priest slid open the panel that separated us inside a confessional. Gazing through the shrouded window at the shadowy figure opposite me, I always spoke in a hushed tone, praying that whoever sat on the far side of the confessional could not hear my litany of sins, including my lies.

Karen Antonietti First Communion 1963
First Communion 1963

I recited the same list and assigned a corresponding number at every telling. I fought with my brothers and sisters nine times. I disobeyed my parents seven times. I lied eight times…Though I did not keep a tally, I was certain some of my infractions numbered ten or more. Hence, liar liar.

Fast forward fifty-some years.

I hunkered in assisted living with my eighty-nine-year-old mother after she broke her pelvis in October 2020. Her senior living community was on lockdown due to the COVID-19 pandemic, but I was allowed to be her essential caregiver during her rehabilitation period. Throughout my fourteen-plus week stay, her bones healed. Sadly, her dementia progressed.

Mom’s grasp of reality fluctuated. Sometimes she knew who I was. Other times, she thought I was her friend Shirley. One afternoon, my sister Laurie called while Mom and I were eating lunch. During their conversation, Mom said, “No, Karen’s not here.” She listened to Laurie for a moment, then turned to me with a quizzical look and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Karen,” I said.

Her face softened into a smile. “Oh, you little pup!” she replied, and her words and mirth made me laugh. 

"Shirley" Karen Buley and mom, Kay Antonietti in assisted living, January 2021.
“Shirley” and Kay January 2021

Most days, Mom remembered that our Papa had died. The large, foam-backed banner that sported his picture, birth and death dates, and the words, “Forever In Our Hearts,” was propped atop her dresser. When she made loops with her walker, she’d often smile and say, “Hi, Pops,” throwing in an occasional, “Pray for us.”

After she regained her strength, we made weekly outings to a coffee shop drive through on our way to visit Papa’s grave. On the fourth anniversary of his death, we were parked in our usual spot at the cemetery. “I haven’t seen your dad in a long time,” she said. Sorrow laced her voice.

I replied with the gentle words that had softened her sadness when I’d needed them before. “Papa’s in heaven.”

“He died?” she wailed. “Oh, Dan. What did I do to you? I’m so sorry…”

I longed to dial back my words.

I had recently learned about “therapeutic fibbing”—bending the truth to match her reality—and “redirection”—shifting her focus. In hindsight, I desperately wished I had used one of those techniques that day and struggled to give myself grace.

Two-and-a-half weeks later, the senior living community hosted a reading and author’s chat for my novel Perimenopausal Women With Power Tools. Mom sat in the front row, alternately beaming and dozing. Guilt haunted me, knowing that, like my protagonist, Beth, I too was harboring a lie of omission—“the worst [kind],” according to my eighteen-year-old character, Kate.

Unbeknownst to my mom, she would be moving into memory care the following week. I’d stay with her for two days, then return home. My heart was breaking.

I spent several fitful nights lying beside her in her queen-size bed, agonizing about leaving and wishing for clairvoyance. If I knew Mom’s days were numbered, I would power alongside her until the end.

But then moving day arrived. I chased sleep for two nights in memory care, tucked into a rollaway at the foot of her twin bed. Every cell in my body ached at the thoughts of saying goodbye.

I waited until the last minute to tell Mom I was leaving. She was in the living room, watching a musical with several of the ladies. I said quiet goodbyes to staff and some of the residents, then squatted in front of her chair. I still had vacation time, plus hadn’t dipped into the Family and Medical Leave Act, but I couldn’t admit that staying and watching her decline was so damn hard. Instead, I lied and said, “I have to go back to work.”

“You do?” Anguish filled her face, and her eyes puddled as she grabbed my hands.

“I do.” I straightened, then added “I’ll be back,” and kissed the top of her head through my mask. “I’ll call you when I get home,” I said, knowing my standard words were a fib now too. “I love you,” I managed, unable to stop the quiver, but turning before tears streaked my cheeks.

I did go back, including for a weeklong stay and some other overnights throughout the next twenty-six months. During that time, Mom graduated from hospice care twice, then was referred a third time the day before she died. I was blessed to be at her bedside when she exhaled a final, peaceful sigh.

In truth, I’m grateful for more than sixty years of memories.

Kay & Dan Antonietti 1995.
Kay & Dan Antonietti 1995

I’m also grateful that, whether my mom is somewhere over the rainbow or on the other side of the veil, her journey through dementia is over and she’s living her new, best life.

Crow

TikTok and Angels

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I was energized by a coed book club’s discussion about Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools last month. Our conversation wove around my writing process and the book’s themes and characters. Some readers wished for a map. Others wished for recipes. Two weeks later, I created a TikTok account to share slices of Missoula, recipes and more.

Three days ago, I headed to Memorial Rose Garden Park, hoping to videotape a crow.

A bit of backstory—

My dad’s (misspelled) name, Dan Antonietti, is memorialized there on the Montana State Vietnam Veterans Memorial Committees plaque.

Dad died in January 2017. Months later, family members gathered on Father’s Day in remembrance of our patriarch. As we shared brunch around my mom’s dining room table, a crow perched on the deck railing outside the sliding glass door. “That’s Papa,” I said.

Knives and forks stilled as three generations studied the sleek black bird. He studied us back.

Ever since, I have looked and listened for crows. I’ve asked Papa for signs of support, too. When Mom, a child of the Great Depression, struggled with feelings of guilt about buying a wall-mounted TV and small dining set before downsizing into a senior living apartment, a crow landed atop Best Buy.

Another—or perhaps the same—cawed from a light post outside a furniture shop. “Papa’s saying, ‘Thumbs up, Catherine Ann,'” I said.

Mom looked at me and grinned.

On move-in day, a bittersweet heaviness hung in the air. I begged Papa to let us know he was with us. As Mom and I drove into the parking lot of her new home, a crow settled high atop the flagpole where an American flag rippled in the breeze. I gestured toward the perfect vantage point for our proud, World War II veteran. “There’s Papa,” I managed, the words thick in my throat.

“This is a nice place, Papa,” Mom said. Her blue eyes sparkled when she met my gaze.

I have felt my dad’s presence at other times, too. When I pulled out my cellphone to call Mom on their sixty-third wedding anniversary, the first since Dad died, “MOM…calling” appeared on my cellphone screen before I tapped a single button.

Three weeks later, a document titled “Dad extra” popped open on my computer screen while I was working on my novel. Memories of the question he’d often asked, “How’s your book coming, Sweetheart?” rolled through my mind.

The day I posted a picture of Papa and Gov. Steve Bullock on my blog page, a new tab opened to my website. And as I lay in bed early one morning reading Proof of Angels, a burst of static erupted, then stopped. When the static resumed a minute later, I reached for the clock radio. Unused for years, the radio was on.

So, when I neared Rose Park three days ago, I spoke in the quiet of my heart. I need you, Papa.

Entering the park, I heard Caw Caw Caw.

I didn’t spot him right away.

Caw Caw Caw Caw Caw.

I looked up. There was a crow, perched high in a tree. He stayed there for three minutes, and I posted a bit of him on TikTok the following day.

Yesterday, I opened my phone’s camera, selected front-facing video, then propped the phone against a lamp. Instead of hitting the red record button, I moved away to check the screen view. Moments later, my image disappeared and the TikTok video—saved to my Photos app—began to play.

Papa is with me still.

Silver bowl after second cleaning.

Lessons in Chemistry and More

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Bird by bird. I repeated the mantra I’d lifted from the title of a beloved Anne Lamott book, then climbed onto a stool. On a mission to purge, I knew a silver platter lay nestled in the far reaches of the cabinet above the refrigerator. But I couldn’t remember what else was up there.

Atop the platter was a silver-rimmed glass bowl. Wedding gifts, both were untouched since we’d moved into this house thirty-one years ago. The final, forgotten item—a silver bowl, monogramed with my mother’s maiden name initials—made my heart skitter. I couldn’t recall when my mom had gifted it to me.

Monogramed, tarnished silver bowl. Lessons in chemistry and more.

I set aside the platter and glass bowl to donate to Secret Seconds, my favorite thrift store. Then I studied my mom’s bowl. Its discoloration made me certain I’d tucked it away with plans to clean it one day.

That day had finally arrived.

The bowl’s heavy tarnish led me to wonder if it was sterling silver. Internet sleuthing schooled me otherwise: the letters EPNS on the back of the bowl meant it was silver plated. The internet provided cleaning recipes too. The first recipe removed some of the tarnish. More so though, its combination of salt, baking soda, aluminum foil, and boiling water evoked memories of the rotten-egg odors of Yellowstone National Park. A follow-up remedy of baking soda paste restored more of the silver’s luster.

Silver bowl with baking soda paste. Lessons in chemistry and more.

The bowl is now displayed in our dining room which, until we cleaned out the family home in 2018, had only a photo gallery and dining set.

Treasures from three generations. Lessons in chemistry and more.

I wish I had unearthed Mom’s bowl in 2019 during her final visit to Missoula. Her memory was slipping, but I believe she could have told me the Who When Why behind the bowl, even if she couldn’t remember when she had given it to me. I’m sure she relayed those details when she gave me the bowl.

Years ago, I remember her telling me that her aunts and uncles gave her sterling silverware for birthdays and Christmases when she was a teen and young adult. She said, “Whenever I opened another piece of silverware I wanted to throw up. I wished I’d gotten a pair of clam diggers instead.”

Catherine Ann. 8th grade, 1945.
Catherine Ann. 8th grade, 1945.

That story made me laugh.

Since the bowl sports my mom’s maiden name initials, I’m sure she received it sometime before 1952. That year was significant for three reasons. In the order of their occurrence: my mother got engaged; she graduated from Carroll College with a nursing degree; and she turned twenty-one.

At some point in the ensuing years, Mom occasionally noted gift giver’s names and dates on the backs or bottoms of gifts. Perhaps she gleaned that habit after taping her name on the bottoms of numerous dessert and casserole dishes that she dropped off for potlucks or to feed bereaved families. In her 80s, she had said, “If there’s anything you want, write your name and tape it on there so I’ll remember.”

I hadn’t written my name anywhere before we gathered at 5 Wood Court in 2018. But I treasure the keepsakes that memorialize Mom’s handwriting. The dates are precious too. 1969. 1979. 2003.

Keepsakes from 1969, 1979, 2003, and unknown date. Lessons in chemistry and more.

Some gifts, journeying full circle, made their way back to me.  

Keepsakes from my mother's home, including two gifts I had given her twenty-one and forty-four years ago. Lessons in chemistry and more.

 

Vineyard Harvest Stock.adobe.com

Compassion, Generosity, and Love

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Last week, a colleague asked if I was writing anything. I said a quick “No” before adding, “well, I’m working on a homily.”

“That’s writing,” she replied.

I delivered my homily at Spirit of Peace this morning. Despite having read it aloud numerous times in the past few days, I choked up when I shared the segments about my dad and the New York Times article. I hadn’t expected to falter through those words.

During the sign of peace and again during coffee hour, I received several compliments about my homily. In one conversation, we chatted about being part of the “universal church,” referencing the fact that the Scriptures we shared during liturgy today were shared by others around the globe.

When I opened my email hours later, I discovered a message from a person of a certain age who had joined our liturgical celebration via Zoom:

Karen, Your Homily this morning provided the best insights into this Gospel that I have ever heard. Thanks!

His message, and the conversation about our universal church, inspired me to share my homily in this post.

ID 9247429 © Cristina Deidda | Dreamstime.com
Manual Harvesting © Cristina Deidda | Dreamstime.com

The first reading from Philippians [Philippians 1:20c-24, 27a] says, “For to me life is Christ, and death is gain. If I go on living in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me. And I do not know which I shall choose.”

We also hear about labor in Matthew’s Gospel [Matthew: 20:1-16a], as Jesus illustrates God’s divine compassion and generosity. Numerous times after the first laborers begin to work, the landowner tells others, “You too go into my vineyard, and I will give you what is just.”

This parable is one I’ve struggled with in the past. Perhaps some of you have as well. Thankfully, a variety of resources helped shape this homily.

At Home with the Word 2023 explains, “The daily wage for laborers was enough for a small extended family of several adults and children to purchase bread and vegetables for the day’s meals with a bit left over for taxes and other expenses. Observant Jews had to be especially careful to keep enough for Sabbath days when they refrained from labor. The vineyard owner was thus making sure all his laborers could eat regardless of the work they put in. His concern was for the effects of the wage, not its value as a symbol of effort.”

Theologian Jessie Bazan had this to say, in part, on Catholic Women Preach.

“The first group of laborers in today’s parable get stuck in binary thinking at payment time:

Either you work a full day and get paid the usual wage, or you work part of the day and get paid part of the usual wage.

This thinking makes sense. It seems fair.

But then they see the later hires get paid the full wage, and the first group makes an assumption:

If those who work part of the day get the full wage, then those of us who work the full day will get the full wage plus a bonus.

Again, this thinking makes sense. It seems fair.

But the landowner rebukes this reasoning—and through his actions, Jesus shows us once again:

God is far too creative for binaries.

God is far too mysterious for assumptions.

Our God is a God of infinite possibilities, whose ways are high above the human ways to which we’ve grown accustomed. Our God cannot be tamed within the made-up constructs of in or out, worthy or unworthy, last or first. Our God is near to all who call upon the divine name in truth, no matter if we got to work at the crack of dawn or right before quitting time.”

Bazan’s words, “This thinking makes sense. It seems fair,” encapsulated my interpretation of today’s Gospel throughout the years.

My parents taught me about the importance of work, unions, and workers’ rights during my childhood in Butte. My paternal grandfather, Joseph  Antonietti, immigrated from Italy. He died in 1937 when my father was only nine years old. In 2015, I helped my dad with a brief family history. Together, we wrote:

“Joseph was a walking delegate for the Cooks’ and Waiters’ Union, No. 22. Dan remembers asking, as a young boy, why his dad had to make weekly treks to collect union dues. His father’s reply, ‘If everybody was honest, we wouldn’t need unions,’ inspired Dan to become a lifelong union member. Now eighty-seven, Dan recently celebrated sixty-five years of active union membership.”

My parents also taught me about compassion, generosity, and love.

I was reminded of Matthew’s Gospel as I recalled a conversation I had with my son Eric several years ago. We were talking about ROOTS—the young adult Seattle shelter I’ve mentioned before that serves 18-25-year-olds who are experiencing housing instability.

Those seeking overnight shelter can call ROOTS between 8:00 and 8:30 PM or sign up at the door during the same thirty-minute window and ask to be put on the list. If more than forty-five people sign up, a random drawing at 8:30 PM determines who can stay, or who is offered a plate of food, a blanket, and a bus ticket—the latter which could be used to try to access another shelter.

I told Eric a lottery system didn’t seem fair, and asked why it wasn’t “First come, first serve.” He said some guests might have phones or bus money that enable them to access the list more easily. Others may have neither and might have to walk long distances to get to ROOTS. Thus, not applying a first-come-first-served approach was more equitable. And if more than forty-five people were looking for shelter, first-time shelter guests and those with medical needs who were referred by healthcare professionals were automatically welcomed in, not included in the lottery.

I was reminded of today’s Gospel again last week by a heartbreaking article in The New York Times, titled, “Suing. Heckling. Cursing. N.Y.C. Protests Against Migrants Escalate.” The tagline read, “After migrants were sheltered at a defunct school, neighbors on Staten Island turned on a loudspeaker and put up signs to drive them away.”

The article talked, in part, about a 52-year-old father and his 24-year-old daughter, who had journeyed from Ecuador and had been at the shelter for twelve days. They were vetted by the U.S. Border Patrol and had an immigration court date scheduled in the future. The authors wrote, “The two had spent the day in Queens—a three-hour round trip—canvassing every Spanish-speaking restaurant and store for open positions. But no one was hiring. Their plan was to wake up early tomorrow to try again.”

So, returning to today’s parable…the laborers who showed up early might have had privileges the latecomers did not: beds, breakfast, and proximity or the means to get to the marketplace at daybreak. Conversely, those who arrived later might have battled hunger and thirst as they walked hours to reach their destination. Or some, like the father and daughter in New York, might have been looking for work the entire day.

As always, I received inspiration from this community too. In Tim’s latest homily, he encouraged us to open our hearts and look upon others with compassion. He introduced me to Marcus Borg, whom The New York Times described as “a leading figure in his generation of Jesus scholars.” Borg’s words, “God’s primary quality is compassion; therefore, a life centered in God will be compassionate,” are reflected in today’s Gospel.

Earlier this month, John proclaimed: “Comfort to you who courageously advocate for fairer distribution of resources and challenge the belief that wealth is a sign of favor from God.”

And last Sunday when Alan unfolded the readings, he urged us to treat each other mercifully.

When I dove into today’s readings, I was in the midst of listening to Robin Wall Kimmerer narrate her nonfiction book, Braiding Sweetgrass. She wrote, “Generosity is simultaneously a moral and a material imperative, especially among people who live close to the land and know its waves of plenty and scarcity. Where the well-being of one is linked to the well-being of all. Wealth among traditional people is measured by having enough to give away.”

Today’s reading from the Philippians directs us to conduct ourselves “in a way worthy of the gospel of Christ.” May we continually be inspired to model our Creator God’s compassion, generosity, and love. Amen.

I am grateful to all whose words enriched my own.

Baby Charley, Butte, Montana, 1954

Mothers, , , , , , , , , , , ,

I was a teenager when my mother told me about Baby Charley. He was found in the backseat of a car outside the all-boys Catholic high school in Butte, Montana in 1954. Boys rushed him to the nearby rectory, but a priest directed them to reroute to St. James Hospital, two-and-a-half blocks away.

The story was shared in newspapers around the state.

The Daily Missoulian news article about Baby Charlie, Friday, October 22, 1954.
The Daily Missoulian, Friday, October 22, 1954

My mom, newly married and unbeknownst at the time, newly pregnant, was preparing for the oncoming nurses when she heard pounding on the alleyway door. She asked a janitor to open it. “Petrified” boys passed the baby to the janitor, who quickly handed the baby to her.

“Baby Charley” as he was named, was at St. James for about two months, according to my mom. “Everybody loved him—the priests and nuns and doctors—and lots of boys would come in and talk to him and play with him. He was well taken care of.”

She dressed him the morning he was scheduled to leave with his adoptive parents. Mom had a meeting though, so was sad she did not meet the couple when they arrived to take Baby Charley home.

When I was eight, we relocated from Missoula to Butte and moved into my mom’s cousin’s home across from St. James Hospital. The hospital was boarded up by then, replaced by a new building a few blocks away. I traipsed past the old hospital’s alleyway door thousands of times in the ensuing years, walking to and from church and school. The all-boys’ high school became mine, having transitioned to coed in the 1960’s. After learning about Baby Charley, I often imagined the boys’ angst as they rushed to the rectory, then hurried to the nearest hospital door they could find.

Mom repeated the story throughout the years, the last time in early 2020 as we visited in her independent living apartment. “He was inside a paper bag, dressed and wrapped in a blanket. He had a sugar tit in his mouth, and he had beautiful red hair…” She paused. “I hope he’s doing okay.”

“I bet he is,” I said, studying the black and white photograph featuring Baby Charley and my twenty-three-year-old mother. Clad in her white cap and starched nurse’s uniform, she’s smiling at Charley, whose tiny fingers are curled around her finger.

Kay Antonietti & Baby Charlie, St. James Hospital; Butte, Montana; 1954
Kay Antonietti & Baby Charley; St. James Hospital; Butte, Montana; 1954

The photo, which Mom kept in her cedar chest, was taken for a follow-up news article. “Picture no. 3; 2 col Sun; bottom, pg. 4;” was scribbled across its back. But instead of publishing the photograph of Baby Charley and my mother, the newspaper published a photo of him and a nursing supervisor instead.

My mom passed away on March 18, 2023. Two days ago, I washed the linens that had cocooned her, and my sister and me, during Mom’s final hours. I also laundered a pair of plush throws. The blankets rushed memories of Mom and I snuggled under them during our fourteen weeks together after she broke her pelvis in October 2020. Swathed in comfort and warmth, we’d watch “Jeopardy” and “Wheel of Fortune.” We’d reminisce too, and sometimes when dementia took hold, she’d ask, “Where’s the baby?”

A childbirth educator and decades-long nurse, mother of eight, grandmother of fourteen and great-grandmother of twelve, Mom could have been referring to a number of babies. But during those weeks I hunkered in Assisted Living with her, she often lived in the past.

On this Mother’s Day I wonder, as I have before, if the infant Mom worried about was Baby Charley. My years of teaching Lamaze classes and working as an OB nurse, coupled with the creation of characters for my novel Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools, colored my emotions as I contemplated Baby Charley’s birth and his birth mother’s courage, strength, heartache and love.

Mom’s plush throws are washed and tucked away. I imagine gifting one blanket to Charley. If his birth mother is still alive, I imagine gifting her the other. Full circle from the young nurse who welcomed and loved Baby Charley nearly sixty-nine years ago.

Karen Buley and family present PERIMENOPAUSAL WOMEN WITH POWER TOOLS in Leavenworth, WA, April 15, 2023.

Anniversary Celebration and Book Reading

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In 2021, I wrote, “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.”

Nearly three years after PWWPT made its quiet entrance into the world, I’m on the cusp of realizing that dream. Please join me on Thursday, May 4 at 7:00 p.m. for a Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools Anniversary Celebration and Reading at Fact & Fiction.

Some of you will be with me in spirit.

Karen Buley reading to family April 15, 2023 in Leavenworth, WA.
Buley family reading in Leavenworth, WA, April 15, 2023.

My two biggest fans will partake from their celestial vantage points.

Author Karen Buley with parents, Dan and Kay Antonietti. NANNY ON THE RUN book reading at Headframe Spirits, Butte, MT
My parents, Dan & Kay Antonietti at 2013 NANNY ON THE RUN reading at Headframe Spirits in Butte, MT.

Grateful for all of you, I’m reminded of additional words from that 2021 blog post: “My parents modeled flexibility and resilience. They also taught me the art of friendship.”

Cultivating Awe and Embracing Hope

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My sweet mom passed away on March 18. She had had a marked decline the day before—Saint Patrick’s Day—which, my siblings and I agreed, would have been a perfect day for our Irish Catholic mom to earn her angel wings.

Kay Antonietti on her 90th birthday, August 7, 2021.
Kay Antonietti on her 90th birthday, August 7, 2021.

Coincidentally, in January I had been invited to give today’s Easter homily at Spirit of Peace. I understand people hold innumerable philosophical and spiritual beliefs. But in sharing this portion of my homily, my wish is that words of hope, awe, and ultimately, my mother’s gift, touch your heart as they did mine.

After mulling these readings [Acts 10:34a, 37-43; John 20:1-9] and the continuation of John’s Gospel in January, I tucked away the words joy, hope and rebirth. Serendipity intervened weeks later when I discovered a link to a New York Times article in my inbox. The article’s title, “How a Bit of Awe Can Improve Your Health,” and its one-sentence summary, “Experts say wonder is an essential human emotion—and a salve for a turbulent mind,” drew me in.

Imagine the wonder and awe Mary Magdalene experienced when she witnessed the Risen Christ!

UC Berkeley psychologist Dacher Keltner defines awe as “the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your understanding of the world.” He authored a recent book titled, Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life. According to the book blurb, “Keltner shows us how cultivating awe in our everyday life leads us to appreciate what is most humane in our human nature. And during a moment in which our world feels more divided than ever before, and more imperiled by crises of different kinds, we are greatly in need of awe.”

I didn’t realize how great my need for awe was until I presided last month. Plagued by so many disturbing legislative bills and votes that harm students, educators, the LGBTQ+ community, people living in poverty and more, I was overcome by the power of Susan’s Eucharistic Prayer. You witnessed the tremble in my voice as I prayed, “Enable us to become what You long for us to be—people filled with love, awe, grace and compassion,” and “We affirm our unity with people everywhere and express our belief in the dream of God for a time of peace, love, goodness and grace.”

Five days after I proclaimed that prayer, some of my siblings and I had the privilege of gathering with our mom as she prepared to journey home. After nineteen hours, my sister Laurie and I remained. Mom’s ragged breathing quieted, and her mouth moved in a slow, rhythmic cadence. I changed the background music to Calm Celtic Harp and, a minute later, she released a final sigh. Reverent stillness bathed the room as Laurie and I kissed our mom’s cheeks and caressed her rosary-draped hands.

We marvel at first breaths and last, springtime and candlelight, the whisper of leaves rustling in a breeze and a crow’s insistent caw-caw-caw, which reminds my family our Papa is near.

We are awed by fire and water, everyday acts of kindness, morning light and the evening sky when an Eskimo Proverb affirms, “Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.”

Days after my mom passed, I revisited a New York Times opinion piece I’d saved last fall. In an op-ed titled “What My Father’s Death Taught Me About Living,” Lydia Polgreen wrote in part about reconnecting with her estranged father. She said, “The things he failed to provide were nothing compared with what he had given me: the raw materials for a life filled with adventure, connection and meaning. A belief in the fundamental goodness of people across all kinds of difference. A commitment to trying to understand the world and make it understandable to others.”

She continued, “I realize now that the most precious thing my father gave me was an example of how to live a life devoid of cynicism and pessimism. He was a dreamer and an optimist, sometimes to an absurd and even dangerous degree. But a bias toward the vulnerability of hope—that is a true gift.”

My mother gave the same to me.

Two-and-a-Half Years and Counting

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I have written snippets about my mother’s journey through dementia and am proud to share “I Was Really Scared Last Night” which was recently published in Please See Me. An online literary journal, Please See Me’s mission is “to elevate the voices and stories of vulnerable populations, and those who care for them.”

When I visited my mom a couple of weeks ago, she greeted me with an “Oh my God,” as I bent to kiss her cheek.

My mother, Kay Antonietti.
Kay Antonietti, cuddled under an afghan from a hospice volunteer December 17, 2022

And this week, after demonstrating an upswing, she graduated from hospice care. Her heartrate has normalized, she is more awake, her appetite and ability to feed herself have improved, and she has more frequent episodes of coherent speech.

Her eyes still hold their sparkle, and every day with her is a gift.

Reading picture books 1992.

The Beauty of Books

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Unbeknownst to me in 1990, Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop highlighted the necessity of providing children with diverse books in an essay titled, “Mirrors, Windows, and Sliding Glass Doors.” That same year, I was immersed in an array of childbirth, parenting, and picture books. I loaded infant Colin and three-year-old Eric into their car seats for weekly excursions to Tiny Tales story time at our public library. Eric and I unpacked bagfuls of board books and picture books on our way in, then replenished our supply after Tiny Tales ended.

Occasionally, I carted those books plus some of our own to the childbirth education classes I taught and scattered them on my students’ chairs. At the beginning of class, I pitched our public library and the joys of reading to children, ending with my hope that my students’ babies, like mine, would find comfort in “warm laps and good books.”

reading picture books 1992
Colin, Karen, and Eric Buley 1992

In 2017, years before I uncovered Dr. Bishop’s words, I penned a blog post titled, “Queer is not a bad word.” I reflected on my early parenting years, then added:

“Fast forward twenty-five years. I wish I had known to look for LGBTQIA books. That acronym was not in my vocabulary back then, but acceptance, empathy, love, and tolerance were. I have since learned that I am an ally. And Eric is queer. He is also a Fulbrighter. A City Year AmeriCorps alum. An Education Pioneer. A TeamChild Board Fellow. And an MPA. A recent graduate of the University of Washington, he was nominated to be both a Husky 100 and a Luce Scholar. He is fluent in Spanish; has lived on four continents; and is compassionate, kind, and an inspiration. His sexual orientation does not define him.”

My days of hands-on parenting, childbirth education, and obstetrical nursing are long behind me. Now, I work in a high school library. There’s a chance some students whom I helped to welcome into the world years earlier have since recommended books to me.

But students in parts of our country have less access to books than others do. As reported last month in U.S. News and World Report, “Book bans, while not a new phenomenon, have gained momentum in recent years. Censorship attempts have most recently targeted books that include LGBTQ characters or address issues of race and racism.”

In my quest to learn more, I discovered Dr. Bishop and her research. Her advocacy for literature that mirrors children’s experiences or provides glimpses or portals into the lives of others is more important now than ever, as I wrote in a June 16 Seattle Times op-ed.

Thirty-two years have passed since Dr. Bishop wrote: “When there are enough books available that can act as both mirrors and windows for all our children, they will see that we can celebrate both our differences and our similarities, because together they are what make us all human.”

If I were still teaching childbirth education classes, I would scatter board books and picture books—including The Day You Begin, Oglivy, Love Makes a Family, Antiracist Baby, and Love You Forever—on my students’ chairs. I would tell my students I have two adult children, “One is queer, and one is not, and I love them with all my heart.”

I would share my hope that their babies find delight in warm laps and good books, plus I would add a pair of fervent wishes. “May your children grow to discover and embrace their authentic selves, and may you harbor these words from Love You Forever in your hearts: ‘I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.’”

Cancer Horoscope November 12, 2021

A Horoscope. A Muse. A Tiny Love Story.

Writing, , , , , , ,

I read my horoscope nearly every day. Sometimes, I run with its forecast. Other times, I ignore every word. And on occasion, I embrace the parts I like and disregard the rest.

Eleven days ago, my horoscope’s opening line, “You’re in touch with your muse today, which is why this is a productive day for those of you who work in the arts or creative projects,” nudged me to revisit my writing from the previous year.

An inspirational horoscope led to publication in The New York Times.
November 12, 2021

I focused on a 100-word story I had written about my mom and me for The New York Times Tiny Love Stories. After submitting the piece last November, I envisioned seeing it and an accompanying photo online and perhaps in print.

I did not.

Rereading my story, I resolved to try again. I scoured other Tiny Love Stories, certain their words were my muse. Then I plunged in, narrowing my story to a single moment.

Four days after that prophetic horoscope, I received an email from NYT editor Miya Lee. One week later, my amended Tiny Love Story was published online in The New York Times.

Oh. My. Heart.