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.
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.
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.
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 2023explains, “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 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.
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.
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.
November 12, 2021
I focused on a 100-word story I had written about my mom and me for The New York TimesTiny 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.
Last month, I unearthed a large, cardboard box marked
“Christmas Extra” from beneath the stairs. Untouched for years, the box housed
a collection of kids’ art from 1989 on, plus nutcrackers, candles, wreaths, a
fabric reindeer, and assorted other decorations.
The pair of handmade books sparked a smile.
I had neglected to add the year to Eric’s book—certain, I suppose, I would never forget when he gifted us with Christmas Rhymes and Riddles. 1997? His cursive signature made that guess a good bet. Colin’s book, A Very Buley Christmas, was memorialized with a 2001 copyright date.
When our family of four reconnected this holiday season, we shared a laugh over Colin’s tongue-in-cheek dedication. But none of us could pinpoint the date of Eric’s book. “Didn’t you write another one?” I asked.
“Yeah—I wrote a book about leprechauns,” Eric replied.
I found Little Green Men yesterday, cocooned in a storage cube.
Eric, like Colin, penned his book in sixth grade. Beginning with preschool cookbooks, though, the boys had seen their names in print throughout the years. The prolific writer, Ursula K. Le Guin, wrote, “To have written a book is a very cool thing, when you are six or eight or ten years old. It leads to other cool things, such as fearless reading. Why would anybody who’s written a book be afraid of reading one?”
Much has been written about the importance of reading, not just for our youth, but for all of us. Thank you to educators that promote reading and writing. And special thanks to adults like Curtis Jenkins, who, after gifting a Dallas student with a shirt depicting one of her illustrations, said, “I’m hoping this T-shirt inspires her to keep on writing books.”
I’m hoping that young girl keeps writing books, too.
Seventy-six voices, garnered from 2009 to 2016, weave a rich collection of witnessing, connecting, remembering, waking, recognizing, acting, nurturing, and growing. “These true tales, our sisters’ voices, link us and can lead us forward,” writes Susan F. Schoch, editor.
Susan Witting Albert adds, “But while these stories are grounded in the daily realities of individual lives, they tell us a communal story. . . . At SCN [Story Circle Network], we say that every woman has a hundred stories to tell, and they are all true.”
I am about to witness my first birth. I am twenty; my patient and her husband are eighteen. “Childbirth 1977”
Humbled and honored to be part of the tapestry of SCN’s latest book.
When I tell people that my novel, Nanny on the Run, is based on my summer of 1977, I’m sometimes asked, “What percentage of the book is true?”
The answer is difficult to quantify.
Like Bridget, I was a nanny on the run in New York City in 1977. The guts of my experience are what I used to shape the fiction that is Bridget’s story. And fiction it is. I began the story years ago. Then, in 2002, The Nanny Diaries hit the shelves. Not wanting my work in progress to be viewed as a copycat novel, I started over. I wrote my true story—but changed the names of some of the key players.
I finished the memoir in 2005. After an unsuccessful attempt to find an agent or publisher, I tucked my manuscript away. I hadn’t intended to write the truth anyway, so it seemed fitting to box up the pages and slide them under my bed. The end, I thought.
Instead, it was only a hiatus. In 2010, I began anew. Rather than resurrecting my previous fiction, I started over. That result, Nanny on theRun, was published nearly six months ago.
When I contemplate Bridget’s story, I think about the Play-Doh 3-packs of my youth.
I envision yellow as my life, blue and red as fiction. Bridget’s story is a patchwork of yellow—those places where her story mirrors mine, green—blue mixed with yellow to symbolize the places where my story undergoes change and morphs into Bridget’s, and purple—a blend of red and blue to signify where Bridget’s story is purely make-believe.
My intent to not tell my true story carries through to today. When asked questions about me or my summer, my M.O. is to steer my answers back to Bridget and her story. But I will tell you this. Three parallels exist between Bridget’s summer and mine. We both felt like fish out of water. We were treated like servants. And we left without saying goodbye.
As for bits of yellow? Bridget and I share the same hula hoop record. We both were candy stripers. And our dads were Golden Gloves boxers in their youth. But mine was tougher.
It’s a thrill to launch a new book into the world. As people gathered at Fact and Fiction prior to my debut reading of Nanny on theRun, I spotted a young boy standing near the back. After chatting with him for a few moments, he asked, “Are you the author?”
“I am,” I said.
The reverence in his voice reminded me of a conversation I had with a long-time friend. Both of us are nurses and avid readers. We both write, too, though my friend hasn’t yet shared her work. We’d asked each other, “Do you think you would’ve considered writing as a career if you would’ve met any authors when you were growing up?”
“I don’t know,” was our echoed reply.
Squeezing in book signings before the reading at Fact and Fiction
Chatting with sisters Teresa and Helena
Listening to Barbara Theroux’s introduction
“This is nothing like Butte.”
A lively Q & A followed the reading
I do know this. I’ve loved my mother’s nursing stories ever since I was a little girl. I’ve loved to read, too. And having become both a nurse and an author, I feel very fortunate. Very, even though I avoid adverbs whenever possible.
Shakespeare & Co. reading
Following the Q & A at my Shakespeare & Company reading, a gentleman said, “You didn’t say anything about your nursing.”
So I obliged. While I was sharing a bit about my nursing career, the rest of the audience remained in their seats to listen. A couple who had wandered into the store during the Q & A stopped and took notice as I began my nurse talk.
I learned afterward that the woman was a nurse. Better yet, she wants to become a nursing instructor.
Signing Nurses on the Run
Nearly two weeks have passed since my second book reading. There are more on the horizon. Last night at a barbeque, I chatted with friends and acquaintances and with people whom I’d never met. More than one said, “You published a novel?”
Karen Buley presents The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
Karin Knight reads from The Namesake
Kim Anderson shares Housekeeping
I had the privilege of sharing Sherman Alexie’s book,The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, which won the 2007 National Book Award for Young People’s Literature. Alexie has been on my radar for years, ever since I heard him speak at the University of Montana. He was inspirational, funny, and his words about the craft of writing prodded me to continue to plug away at my own writing.
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian!
Great smiles for great books
Humor in Sherman Alexie’s words
This year, I’m applying to be a giver of Vanessa Diffenbaugh’sThe Language of Flowers. Not only has Diffenbaugh written a powerful debut novel about what can happen when you age out of foster care (you might find yourself homeless and sleeping in a park like protagonist Victoria Jones), she also is a co-founder of The Camellia Network, whose mission is to create a nationwide movement to support youth transitioning from foster care.
A bouquet of angelica, bellflower, flax, lisianthus and orange to Vanessa Diffenbaugh. White carnations, cosmos and peppermint to all who make World Book Night 2013 possible.
I have loved books for as long as I can remember. And for almost as long, I have been fascinated with the world of nursing. My mother sparked my interest with her stories when I was a young girl. Later, countless Cherry Ames books fueled my desire to become a nurse. As did my candy striping days. I felt important beyond measure when I walked past the bold-lettered sign at Saint James Hospital: NO VISITORS UNDER THE AGE OF SIXTEEN and knew that, though only fourteen, I had a job to do.
Fast forward to 2012. I’m an OB nurse, I would say. And a writer, I added in recent years.
The former has ended. The latter has not. Less than three weeks have passed since my exit interview for the nursing job I held for nearly twenty-one years. It felt bittersweet as I walked into Community Medical Center to offer parting words that day. Bittersweet, knowing I would be replacing the wonder of birth with the wonder of books.
I said goodbye to my old website this month, too, as library books and You Tube videos taught me about WordPress. Looking at the photos our older son, Eric, helped me stage for my website years ago induced pensive feelings. Those photos captured much of my and my mother’s essence. And though neither of us is practicing right now, we will always be nurses.
So I share the photo that graced my website for six years and helped garner stories for Nurses on the Run.
I share one of our alternates, too. It’s a poignant reminder of the boxes of childhood books my parents moved on my behalf. Not once, but twice.
