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 ToolsAnniversary Celebration and Reading at Fact & Fiction.
Some of you will be with me in spirit.
Buley family reading in Leavenworth, WA, April 15, 2023.
My two biggest fans will partake from their celestial vantage points.
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.”
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.
