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.
The COVID-19 pandemic has thrust us into uncharted territory. Last week, nearly 3.3 million Americans filed for unemployment benefits. Three days ago, we learned the U.S. leads the world in the number of confirmed COVID-19 cases. Closer to home, Montana reported its first COVID-19 death minutes after Gov. Steve Bullock ordered us to shelter-in-place beginning yesterday at 12:01 a.m.
The CDC advises us to take breaks from reading, watching, or listening to stories about the pandemic. But as we’re hunkered in, often with smart phones or remotes at our fingertips, heeding that advice can be a challenge. Anxiety and fear run deep.
I’m mindful of the privileges I have that so many others do not: a stable income, housing, food security, friends and family, books, and good health. I take none of them for granted. In response to a friend’s Facebook post this week about embracing gratitude for a warm house, little worries, a fridge full of food, and other comforts, a man replied, “Good points, but I’m still praying for employment security during this time. It’s a lot of stress.”
Stress beyond my imagination, truthfully. Rich and I volunteered twice this week at Missoula Food Bank & Community Center. We stayed past our scheduled 11-1 shifts both days because there was nobody to take over for us. Sue, the Friday volunteer that replaced Chandler on our assembly line of three, was scheduled to receive a foster dog from the Humane Society of Western Montana that evening. On the cusp of Montana’s shelter-in-place directive, the animal shelter geared up to operate without volunteers.
After we left the food bank Friday afternoon, staff made the difficult decision to suspend volunteer activity inside its building. However, drivers will still be utilized for the senior home delivery program.
As we hunker
in, I offer these thoughts. If you are able, please:
donate to an organization that mitigates food insecurity or provides financial assistance to those in need
apply to your local animal shelter to foster an animal if a need arises (As of yesterday, Missoula’s Humane Society had enough foster families, though they were accepting applications to fill future needs if necessary.)
donate blood
support a local business that offers curbside pickup, takeout, or delivery
Along with limiting our time immersed in news stories and social media, the CDC recommends we exercise, eat well, meditate, share our concerns with others, get plenty of sleep, and more. Some people, due to a myriad of circumstances, might find these guidelines difficult or even impossible. So please, do what you can to help those in need.
And to the health care workers, first responders, pharmacists, grocery store employees, sanitation workers, and all who are doing essential work to feed, care for, and keep us safe, thank you. This video is for you.
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.
When I was eight years old, learning to maneuver and pin a cloth diaper around my baby brother felt monumental. I didn’t like rinsing soiled diapers in the toilet before adding them to the nearby pail, but I never lacked warm water to wash my hands afterward. A sink, plus a tub/shower combination, were steps away. Our family of eight—and later ten—shared that single bathroom, mostly without complaint. My best friend, Re-Re, lived one block away in a home with two bathrooms. She had twelve in her family though, so a second lavatory seemed well deserved.
I was reminded of my idyllic childhood while reading about Xóchitl Guadalupe Cruz, a third grader in Chiapas, Mexico. Families in her community relied upon trees as a source of fuel to heat water for bathing. A seasoned science fair competitor, Xóchitl created a solar-powered apparatus that, in addition to heating water for her family and others, conserved trees. The Nuclear Sciences Institute at Mexico’s Autonomous University recognized her for her invention which could positively impact lives worldwide.
Cheers to Xóchitl Guadalupe Cruz. As O. Delgado wrote: “If this is what Xóchitl is doing at eight, we can only imagine what the future holds.” Her story and others, like that of Sweden’s Greta Thunberg who is crossing the Atlantic Ocean by sailboat to speak at the UN Climate Action Summit in September, bring me hope for the preservation of our Mother Earth. (View Greta’s sailing updates here.)
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.
I made my poetry slam debut last week. Sponsored by one of our high school seniors, I smiled “maybe” when she invited me to slam. Though intrigued, I had written little poetry to date.
Two days before the event, I resurrected a stream-of-consciousness piece from my cell phone. I revised. Rehearsed. Then spoke from my heart.
Update Your Progress: February 8, 2017 at 6:24 AM
Goodreads reminder:
you started reading
The Memory Book
41 days ago
Update your progress
My dad died 34 days ago
is that what you're asking?
dictate words into cell phone
read "time flies" on WaPoUpdate your progress
Calls and emails unanswered
Members of Congress ignored
voter suppression et al
he became president
Update your progress
We marched in Helena
10,000 strong
The woman beside me said,
"isn't it nice to be aroundthinkers?"Update your progress
I fell on my driveway
wrist to shoulder swallowed whole
old anti-inflammatories
got me through
Update your progress
I returned to the treadmill
to walk and to read
Muslim ban and Cabinet nominees
sabotaged my mind
Update your progress
Page 264
93 more
my heart bleeds for our country
my father rests in peace
This Promise from a first and second grade multiage class fills me with hope. Their collective words—penned in a public school classroom two miles from my home—demonstrate a culture of collaboration, creativity, and community.
I hope for equity in our cities, state, country, and world. I hope that our United States will be the welcoming country embodied by the Statue of Liberty. I hope that those tasked with reconciling revenue deficits and funding for essential services will embrace this spirit of collaboration. Most of all, I hope that sharing this Promise from thoughtful, kind, courageous six- to eight-year-old leaders will inspire each of us, particularly elected officials, to model their words.
We lost our Papa in January. In the months that followed, I cocooned myself in his gold and brown sweatshirt, its softness and scent comforts on cold winter nights. Colors of Capital High School Bruins, the frayed neck and sleeves bore evidence of the years Papa spent cheering for his grandchildren.
A special sweatshirt. 2009.
On his eighty-ninth birthday, Dad asked, “Do you think I’ll live to be a hundred?” His question earnest, we vowed to have a ninetieth birthday bash if he made it that long.
He didn’t. He died less than six weeks later, five days after breaking his hip. As we surrounded his hospital bed, I was reminded of a family gathering twelve years prior.
Please keep everyone healthy and safe had been my silent plea, Dad foremost in my mind as extended family bid Eric bon voyage. Not yet seventeen, Eric was headed to Argentina for a yearlong study abroad. I fought tears when he said goodbye to his Papa, wondering if it would be the last time they would see each other.
It was a new word for me. Queer. 1967, age eleven, I sought out my twelve-year-old brother, careful to catch him out of earshot of younger siblings. “What’s a queer?” I asked.
“Ssshhh!” He flicked his head toward the adjacent bedroom where our mother was putting away laundry. “Mom will hear you.”
His stage whisper was so loud, I was certain she heard him, not me. I left, my question unanswered.
I had a fallback plan: Julie, our thirteen-year-old neighbor. She would tell me. And she did. I don’t remember her words. Straightforward, they didn’t leave a lasting impression. The shushing did.
I didn’t fault my brother, though. Growing up in the 1960’s, the families I knew didn’t talk about sex. I added “queers” to the list and moved on.
Twenty years later, I had my first baby. When I changed Eric’s diaper, I practiced saying “this is your penis” and “this is your scrotum,” determined to say those words as easily as “Head of hair. Forehead bare…”
When he was four, I borrowed a kids’ library book to read to him and to one-year-old Colin. It had cartoonish drawings and talked about bodies and making babies, subjects I did not want to be taboo. That same year, Eric traced a panty liner on a piece of paper. “I drew a uterus!” He presented his drawing, his pride palpable.
His drawing did look like the knitted uterus I used in my Lamaze classes. I reveled in his artistry, creativity, and in the way the word rolled off of his tongue.
Eric and Karen Buley.
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.
On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, Eric left Montana to spend a year in San Miguel de Tucumán, Argentina, as a foreign exchange student. Four days ago, I donned a pair of Argentine earrings he gave me, harnessing his courage as I prepared to embark upon my first solo door-to-door canvassing. His political activism began in high school when he restarted an Amnesty International club for his senior project. My activism, spotty throughout the years, kicked up last summer. In recent weeks, it has been on overdrive.
Montana has a special election coming up on May 25. Our lone seat in the House of Representatives was vacated in March. I have been working hard to elect Democrat Rob Quist. He represents Montana values, including equity. His Republican opponent opposed non-discrimination ordinances in Bozeman and Butte. But equity is a Montana value, so both ordinances won easy victories: Bozeman unanimously; Butte 10-2.
At a recent Special Election Action Forum, a speaker shared a conversation she had had with her mother. When she referenced LGBTQ rights, her mom asked, “What does the Q stand for?” then said, “Oh. That’s a word I don’t use.”
Her mom is a Baby Boomer, like me. I didn’t use ‘queer’ growing up, either. I do now.
Last week, while tabling on the University of Montana campus, I talked with another Baby Boomer. He expressed concerns about the candidates. I rattled off Rob Quist’s Montana values: public lands, affordable health care, Medicare and Social Security, public education. He told me he had been in the healthcare field, so we talked about that.
Then I shared the heart of my story. I told him I had never really campaigned before. I said that Rob Quist believes in equity, and I was fighting for my queer son who cried for two weeks after our November election. The current Republican candidate had fought non-discrimination ordinances, I said. I tried to keep the quiver out of my voice when I added that my fight was to elect a man who believes in equity.
He listened, then said that my son should not have to worry about being treated equitably. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me he would vote for Quist “for your son.” He added, “My wife will, too.”
I thanked him, hoping he realized the depth of my gratitude.
I had another tender conversation when I knocked doors two days later. A man told me he had lost his wife the week before. His words matter of fact, I asked about her. Sixty—my age—she died too young. He told me about her cancer and her medical bills. I told him about my dad, who had passed away three months before, five days after breaking his hip. Eighty-nine, he had had a good, long life. We talked about affordable healthcare for all.
I told him I was campaigning because I had a queer son, and because Rob Quist believes in equality.
“Your son is what?” he asked.
“Queer.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s an umbrella term for non-heterosexual,” I said. I told him it was a reclaimed term, not the slur of our youth.
“I did not know that,” he said, his words thoughtful and deliberate.
We talked a bit more about his wife’s upcoming celebration of life, then said our goodbyes.
When I reached the sidewalk, he called, “Tell your son there are people out there who support him.”
“I will,” I replied, my voice catching.
Tears threatened as I walked to the next house. His words affirmed what I knew and gave me resolve. Montana has a single seat in the House of Representatives. I will continue to fight for Montana’s voice to be one of affirmation, safety, and inclusion.
My eighty-nine-year-old father died on January 5, five days after breaking his hip. He was scheduled for surgery January 3–delayed until his body cleared blood thinners—but worsening congestive heart failure declared itself early that morning. “I’ve had a good life,” Dad said, voice breaking after hearing that his body couldn’t tolerate surgery, that we’d keep him comfortable until his reunion with an army of family and friends in heaven.
My mom and I ordered his breakfast, our thoughts shifted from hoping he would make it through surgery without complications to anticipating the logistics of in-home hospice care. When the first of my siblings arrived, Dad told her, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”
Inducted into the Butte Sports Hall of Fame in 2009 for his teenaged boxing prowess, we didn’t know whether those were fighting words or a reference to heaven. Fighting words, it turned out, when he mentioned his caregiver soon after: “Maria’s going to have a job.”
My dad, Dan Antonietti, wearing his favorite WW II Veteran cap.
The hospitalist switched him to oral morphine, which relieved Dad’s pain without the sedation of IV Dialudid. He had a glorious day: visiting with Mom and six of their eight children, talking and singing on the phone to grandchildren, and visiting with Maria.
A champion of veterans’ rights, he had planned to testify on their behalf twenty-three times at the Montana legislature this session. Now, instead of Mom being chauffeur and copilot as he navigated the Capitol halls with his walker, Dad dictated testimony from his hospital bed for her pinch-hitter appearance. He talked so fast, it took two of us to take notes.
“Madam Chair and all members of the State Senate Veterans’ Affairs Committee:
For the record, my name is Catherine Antonietti, wife of Dan Antonietti, who is in the hospital and unable to attend this legislative session. He is a member of Post 1448 in Butte, Montana, which is a mile high and a mile deep and all the people are on the level.”
He grinned, then continued in his own words.
“I was the Legislative Chairman of the Veterans of Foreign Wars at the state and national levels. I voted yes for all legislative bills for the last sixteen years and I continue to cast my vote for every veteran’s bill held in this legislature. I’m glad to see you all back. Thank you, Madam Chair. You’ve all been a big help and I am proud of all of you.”
I fought back tears at his tender words, thinking how proud I was of him. Laughter followed when he said he wanted a beer, then asked for ice cream instead. We told him he could have both. “Just ice cream,” he said. “The kind I like.”
Two sisters went on a grocery run, returning with a half-gallon of ‘Mocha Me Hoppy’ and beer—just in case. Dad had three servings of ice cream that afternoon and evening. He had a couple of bites the next morning, which turned out to be his final meal. He began a steady decline, transitioning from oral morphine to a continuous IV infusion by the time the hospice nurse and social worker arrived for a family consult the following morning.
They asked if we wanted to go to a conference room. Dad hadn’t talked or opened his eyes since the previous evening, but they reminded us hearing was the last to go. We said we wanted to stay.
The nurse listened to his heart and lungs, then said it might only be hours before he passed. She talked about end-of-life care and offered condolences. The social worker did too, lingering to take contact information for bereavement follow-up—offering thirteen months for any or all.
She suggested one-on-one goodbyes with Dad and, after she left, we exited the room so Mom could go first. All eight of us and one brother-in-law followed. Dad’s brow wrinkled in concentration. He didn’t open his eyes, but he moaned and moved his lips. I felt his words in my heart. He died peacefully eleven hours later.
As we reconvened the following morning to discuss funeral plans, Vice President Biden and Congress met to formally count electoral votes. That morning I read factual news, not fake, about fifty-plus ineligible Republican electors—ineligible because they didn’t live in their Congressional Districts, or because as elected officials, they were barred from being “dual office-holders.”
I felt joyful driving to the mortuary. I imagined Dad and his fellow warriors working the Democratic Caucuses from above, particularly Senator Tester who had known and respected him for his veterans’ advocacy. I sang en route:
Papa Dan, you are the man, you’re up in heaven to take a stand to help change the history of our country. The country you loved and fought hard for, Donald Trump will be no more president-elect of this, our great country. Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
I knew my chorus of angels might be hypothetical, but I believed the Democrats would fight for justice. Constituents had urged objections for weeks. President Obama had imposed Russian sanctions. Fifty ineligible electors tipped the scale.
I checked my phone when we broke to look at caskets, certain that Colin Powell’s three electoral votes would multiply and he would be elected President. Premature I knew, because objections, debates, and subsequent votes would take time, but I checked again before we segued to our meeting at the cathedral.
Dad emboldened me with the motto: “You can’t win if you don’t try.” Numbed by the Senate’s inertia, I didn’t cry until driving one hundred twenty miles the next day to pack for his funeral. Angry tears spilled down my cheeks. I cursed Democratic senators and told them about my dad.
He was a fighter. Not a quitter. His dad died when he was ten. Butte-tough, he was a fourteen-year-old featherweight champion. He would have excelled at other sports, too, but he had to work to help support his family.
He was a WW II Veteran. He enlisted in the U.S. Navy in 1945, but was honorably discharged after breaking his back in a car accident. Determined to serve his country, he enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1946 and served in the post-war occupation in Japan.
He was a Blackfeet Nation Indian Chief. Honored for his role in securing programs and funding for the Blackfeet people, he was adopted into the tribe in 1972 and given the name A-pi-na-ko Si–pis-to: “Morning Owl.”
He liked Bernie Sanders. Days before he died, he said to me, “I wanted to vote for Bernie but you said that would be a vote for Trump so I voted for Hillary.” He was heartsick that Hillary won the popular vote but lost the Electoral College.
He loved his country, and was proud of his legacy. Seventeen grandchildren. Five great-grandchildren. He wanted to make their world a better place.
But not one of you Senators put up a fight.
That morning, I talked with a lifelong friend. She said one good thing about Dad’s death was that he would not have to see Trump get inaugurated. We shared our hope that her eighty-six-year-old dad wouldn’t either. After nine months of hospice care, he died peacefully four days later.
On January 21, she, her daughter, and I marched in the Women’s March on Montana, carrying our special angels in our hearts. We toasted them afterward with my mom and sister—reveling in memories of two proud Americans and their lives well lived.
Weeks since we said goodbye to my dad, I miss him. I am grateful, too. Grateful that during his graveside military honors when Mom was presented a medal and the words, “On behalf of the President of the United States . . . ,” Barack Obama was President. I am grateful Dad is not here to watch Trump unravel the country he loved, the country he fought for. Most of all, I am grateful he is pain free and resting in peace. Continue reading I grieve my father. I grieve his beloved country more.→
