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.
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 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 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
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.
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.→
I sent A Shout-out to Books, Libraries, and Dolly Parton to Hellgate High School staff fourteen months ago. Since then, I’ve talked with fathers, mothers, and a grandmother who subsequently registered their children and grandchildren in Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library. Their smiles and enthusiasm were heartwarming and made me wish I’d been able to offer Imagination Library to my Lamaze students years ago.
At times I carted board books and picture books to class, one for each student to peruse as I pitched our public library and its special children’s offerings. I hoped those efforts resulted in some library visits, not only because of my lifelong love of reading and libraries, but because one of my parenting highlights involved my lap, two boys, and good books, which segued to sitting on the couch, bookended by Eric and Colin reading “a page and a page.”
Bedtime reading with Colin and Eric. 1992.
My days and nights of Lamaze classes, OB nursing, and read-alouds are long behind me. I miss the magic of birth, but I love the magic of books. Last week a teacher shared a conversation she’d had with her four-year-old grandson about a “chapter book” he’d recently finished, and about his pride at listening to longer books. We talked about Imagination Library, which prompted me to take another look at its website. Two days ago, the number of U.S. children (birth-age five) registered was 900,712. Today, that number has morphed to 939,462. Beautiful. I hope stories and books continue to thrill those kiddos into high school and beyond.
I had the honor and pleasure of spending special time with my parents this summer. Before every outing, my father would faithfully don his WW II Veteran cap. When he, Mom and I visited the Montana State Capitol to pay homage to the fallen Marines of Lima Company 3/25, several people shook Dad’s hand and said, “Thank you for your service, Sir.”
The tender moment he and Marine Mike Strahle shared brought tears to my eyes. “Thank you for your service, Sir,” Mike said, echoing those words that made me proud.
“Thank you for yours,” was Dad’s soft reply.
My dad, Dan Antonietti, and Marine Mike Strahle.
Surrounding us were the hauntingly beautiful paintings of The Lima Company Memorial: The Eyes of Freedom. Many of the twenty-three Marines who lost their lives in Iraq in 2005 were younger than my twenty-three- and twenty-six-year-old sons.
Twenty-year-old LCPL Nicholas Bloem from Belgrade, Montana.
Admiring Lima Marine Travis William’s handcrafted knife while Dad and Mom rewatched The Eyes of Freedom video.
Two weeks after visiting the memorial, Dad was hospitalized at Fort Harrison VA Medical Center. Over and over again I heard staff say to him and to others, Thank you for yourservice. Mike, an RN and a veteran, wrote those words on the whiteboard in Dad’s room.
Dad’s been home for one week. Following his discharge, we spent time looking through and sorting some of the treasures he’s collected throughout the years. On the title page of one of his books I found this poignant inscription:
The Greatest Generation.
The Greatest Generation indeed.
A few days ago while at dinner with Dad, Mom, a sister and a niece, I noticed a father and son watching as we played musical chairs—not once but twice—in our efforts to avoid an overhead draft. My assumption that the men had found our around-the-table antics humorous was dispelled when they stopped to shake Dad’s hand on their way out.
“Thank you for your service,” the father, who looked to be about my age, said. His voice caught as he added, “My dad was in World War II. We lost him eighteen months ago.”
We said we were sorry to hear about their loss, but our words felt inadequate.
As Mom and I held Dad’s hands in the ER the previous week, I’d wondered how much more time we would have with him. Three hours later, he was sitting up in bed, looking much better. “Can I go home now?” he asked, after finishing his dinner.
My dad is tough. He didn’t go home that night, but he did days later. I was able to stay with him and Mom for five more days. On the morning of my departure, we went out for breakfast. I asked Dad if I could take his picture, this post rolling around inside my head.
