I am four-plus weeks into my gig as an essential caregiver for my eighty-nine-year-old mother. Sitting in her dentist’s reception area while my sister scheduled a return appointment, Mom felt “dizzy,” so stood for reasons unknown. Up one moment, down the next, then an ambulance transported her to the hospital because she could not bear weight on her right leg.
She fractured her pelvis in two places. Neither break required surgery, but she was admitted for therapy and pain management. More lucid than not while she was in the Emergency Department (ED), Mom was not granted an essential caregiver beyond the ED due to COVID-19 visitor restrictions. A bed alarm, a video camera, and a room near the nurses’ station superseded having a family member at the bedside.
Three days later, I was allowed into the hospital for discharge instructions. COVID-19 visitor restrictions were in place at Mom’s senior living community too. But administration gave me permission—following a COVID-19 test—to quarantine with her and help with rehab.
Sometimes Mom remembers why we’re roommates in her assisted living apartment. Other times she does not. Some days I’m “Karen.” Other days I’m not.
She had a walker before her fall, but it sat—unused —outside her door. Mom was given a slower, two-wheel walker in the hospital, which she uses in her apartment. Last week she graduated to her four-wheel walker for outdoor treks and walks around the community. But she doesn’t always remember she needs wheels whenever she’s up.
“Who’s the little lady that belongs to that?” she asked days ago, pointing to the two-wheel walker parked beside her dinette table.
“You’re the little lady that belongs to that. Steady Eddie,” I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re Steady, and this is Eddie.” I patted the walker. “You two are a team.”
“Oh, my,” Mom said with a grin.
Mom and her wheels
This Thanksgiving week, we’ll celebrate what would have been my dad’s ninety-third birthday. And we’ll offer prayers of gratitude for Mom’s continued healing and our sweet bonding time.
Growing up in Butte, Montana, I learned invaluable lessons from my parents, Dan and Kay Antonietti. Lifelong Catholics and Democrats, they taught me and my seven siblings fundamental values like honesty, compassion, integrity, fairness, generosity and respect. They taught us to “love thy neighbor as thyself.” In their messages to my twelve-year-old self, they wrote “be charitable to all.” And when we recited The Pledge of Allegiance, they affirmed that “liberty and justice for all” meant exactly that. All.
As we close in on the 2020 election, thoughts of my dad and mom swirl through my mind. So too do memories of Montana’s 2017 congressional special election. Embracing the principles instilled during my youth, I campaigned hard for the Democratic candidate. I phone banked, knocked doors, and tabled at the University of Montana. I harnessed my son Eric’s courage and graduated into solo door-knocking excursions, something I thought I would never do. I described my trajectory here.
But amid the coronavirus pandemic, I’ve scrapped door knocking this year. Instead, I’m phone banking alone at the dining room table. I’ve penned two hundred postcards, displayed yard signs and bumper stickers, and written a letter to the editor.
Postcards to Swing States
Our Papa died in January 2017. A World War II veteran, he was elected State Commander of Montana VFW in 1991. He later served as Montana VFW’s Legislative Chairman. Throughout his last twenty years, he testified on veterans’ behalf at both the national and state levels. Always his helpmate, Gram was his constant advocacy partner for the last seven.
In 2015, Gov. Steve Bullock invited my parents to Montana’s capitol. Though they had been there countless times, I had the honor of accompanying them on that special occasion. Gov. Bullock commended my dad for his years-long dedication to veterans and their families. Acknowledging my mom’s steadfast support, he thanked her too. Their humble pride was palpable. So was Gov. Bullock’s admiration.
Gov. Steve Bullock and Dan Antonietti, July 2015
Kay Antonietti, Gov. Steve Bullock, Dan Antonietti, Karen Buley
Now Governor Steve Bullock is running for U.S. Senate. Montana’s Lt. Governor, Mike Cooney, a Butte native like my parents, is running for governor. And Kathleen Williams, a three-term Montana legislator, is running for Congress. During the years Papa navigated the halls of Montana’s capitol, he visited with all three. He would be so proud to vote for each of them in 2020, as well as other Democrats up and down the ballot.
Cooney. Bullock. Williams. 2020
Gram turned eighty-nine in August. Her memory fluctuates, but she remembers I’ve been phone banking for Montana’s Democratic candidates. She often asks, “Did you get everything done?” Occasionally she’ll pause, then add “for the election?” When I say I’m making calls one night a week, her reply is always the same. “God love you. I hope they win.”
Kay Antonietti, Spring Meadow Lake State Park
In the quiet of my heart, I hear Papa echo her words.
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.
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.
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.→
My heart ached on election night. I wanted to turn off the television after Trump was declared winner, but didn’t. I forced myself to stay up and listen to his speech. His demeanor and tone were better than I’d seen. He said: “I pledge to every citizen of our land that I will be President for all Americans . . .” As a woman and a mother of a queer son I wanted truth in those words. All became my mantra as I tried to sleep.
Non-supporters did not share my forced optimism in subsequent days. Then Daniel Brezenoff started a petition asking the Electoral College to make Hillary Clinton president on December 19. I signed. Resignation shifted to hope. Her 2.7 million popular vote lead continues to climb.
Three days after the election I drove one hundred twenty miles to celebrate Veterans Day weekend with my parents. My dad, an eighty-nine-year-old WWII veteran, said, “I wanted to vote for Bernie, but you told me that would be a vote for Trump so I voted for Hillary.” He, Mom, and I shared our disbelief and concerns for our country. I told them about the petition—already three million signers by then—and shared my hope for a just outcome.
I awoke the next morning at three thirty. Unable to sleep, I got up at four and typed stream-of-consciousness ramblings. Then, awake for the day, I spent too many hours reading twitter hashtags: #StillWithHer and #NotMyPresident. I didn’t know then that, as my mind spun with ideas for action, a Peace Rally launched in downtown Missoula. A weekly event, I’ve since been to two, and I’ll march in the Missoula Solidarity Alliance Unity March on December 10. Please join me if you can.
My resolve to do something toughened after Steve Bannon was named Senior Adviser. After racist fliers peppered our community. I felt foolish that I’d tried to believe “I’ll be President for all Americans,” despite Trump’s hateful rhetoric and Mike Pence’s opposition to gay rights and same-sex marriage. I explored logistics and costs of blocking off streets or reserving a park for a rally to encourage electors to “flip the vote.” I planned a postcard event instead, facilitated by an offer to share space with Montana Book Festival’s TextCraft at Imagine Nation Brewing on December 4.
Concerned citizens gathered in solidarity after I announced the event at Missoula Rises and at a Peace Rally. While penning our cards, we learned of Standing Rock water protectors’ DAPL victory. Serendipity: affirmation of the power of voices as we exercised our own.
I’ve been told that hoping the electors will flip the vote is a pipe dream. I disagree. The day after we rallied, Texas elector Christopher Suprun wrote in a New York Times op-ed he would not be voting for Trump. And in the weeks since the election, a plethora of nonpartisan, non-ideological concerns have been raised about a Trump presidency.
Twenty-nine voices. Five hundred postcards.
I have faith that our electors will, like Christopher Suprun, do as they are tasked: vote with conscience to keep a demagogue and foreign influences out of the White House.Children should not fear the President.
I was born in Missoula but grew up saying I was from Butte. Birthplace of my parents and older brother, we moved to Butte when I was eight. Roots ran deep. We moved into Mom’s cousin Eleanor’s home, newly vacant following Eleanor’s marriage and relocation to Oregon. We lived blocks from Nana, an aunt, uncle, and cousins. Extended family peppered the city and, on the cusp of third grade, it didn’t take long to embrace Butte as my own.
I’ve been back in Missoula nearly thirty-eight years. The hospital where I took my first breath became the hospital where, as a new nurse, I had to call a wife to tell her that her husband had taken his last. My memory bank overflows with this and other Missoula memories—those forged in my early years and newer ones from 1978 and beyond.
Jon Krakauer’s Missoula and a subsequent Montana Supreme Court hearing thrust the Garden City into the national spotlight. It’s time to give shout-outs to recent Missoula news.
Noting our “rugged outdoorsy spirit,” Thrillist named Missoula one of “The Most Hippie Towns In America (That Aren’t Berkeley Or Boulder).” Though I neither drive a Subaru Outback nor own a Labrador retriever, this designation makes me proud.
Big Dipper Ice Cream is a “Best Ice Cream Parlor” nominee for USA Today’s 10Best Readers’ Choice Awards. Started in the back of a brewery more than twenty years ago, what’s not to love? Currently number 2 on the leaderboard, you can vote daily here. (Voting ends May 23rd at 10:00 a.m. MST.)
In utero blood transfusions—possibly the only successful case in the United States to date—resulted in an early Mother’s Day gift for a Helena mom May 4th. According to Dr. Bardett Fausett, “In little old Missoula, Montana, we’re doing world-class fetal therapy.”
Missoula is preparing for another world-class event, too. Our tenth International Choral Festival will welcome thirteen choirs spanning four continents, July 13th-16th. Last festival, Rich and I had the privilege of hosting three lovely Taiwanese singers who still call me “Mom.”
Rainbow, Amy, & Tiffany at Missoula’s People Market
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.
Brazilians love their futbol. O jogo bonito, they call it. The beautiful game. I had the good fortune of witnessing this love firsthand when, topping my husband’s bucket list, World Cup 2014 drew our family to Salvador, Brazil.
Truth be told, though I was looking forward to seeing some games, I was more excited about spending time with our sons, Eric and Colin. Living five hundred miles apart, our opportunities to get together are limited. Anticipating more than three weeks of family bonding had me over the moon.
What I hadn’t envisioned—something zealous soccer fans will have a hard time understanding—is just how electrifying it would be. To be. In Brazil. For the World Cup.
I’m no stranger to soccer. Rich and I began playing in our mid-twenties and, years later, I became a soccer mom. That status segued the summer of 2010 when our family played together on a co-rec team. Playing short one sweltering July evening, I was assigned to midfield. I still smile at the memory of Colin hollering, “MOM! GO TO THE BALL!” O jogo bonito it was not.
Fast-forward to June, 2014. In the preparatory reading I did on the plane, I learned new—to me—soccer terms. Matches. Penalties. Pitch. Set plays. I read about the World Cup groups, teams, and star players. I learned that, after sixty-four years, Brazil’s devastating 1950 World Cup loss to Uruguay—coined el Maracanaço, the Maracanã blow—remained an open wound. A 2014 Brazil World Cup victory at Estádio do Maracanã could erase the lingering sorrow.
As we queued with hundreds of others to watch the opening match at Salvador’s FIFA Fan Fest, the excitement was palpable. Brahma flowed; drum beats, cheers, and vuvuzelas created a cacophony of noise; Brasil’s yellow and green ruled the night; and the home team won. It was magical.
Throughout the ensuing days, the air sizzled as futbol reigned supreme. Soccer jerseys, flags and team colors led to conversations among strangers—filled with either pre-match anticipation and speculation, or post-match jubilation or angst. Whether watching a match at our pousada, in a restaurant, at the Fan Fest, or live at Arena Fonte Nova, it was a treat to gather with others—including more than fifty thousand in the Arena—and be a part of the ebb and flow of groans and cheers, high fives and stadium waves.
Before the France vs Switzerland match, I crafted a rudimentary sign, hoping to connect with our French student, Jordane, across the airwaves. Approaching the stadium, I was on a mission to score face paint to increase my odds. I spotted a young woman painting flowers on her cheeks—mirror in one hand, brush in the other. A young man, whose entire face was painted blue, white and red, supervised her handiwork. They were Brazilians, I learned, supporters of Esporte Clube Bahia, the local team which shares the French colors. As the woman interrupted her artistry to finger paint two flags for me, I told them our French friend was hoping to see us on TV. Her friend laughed and, carefully sandwiching his face between his hands, said, “I want to be on TV, too!”
I hope he was successful.
Television cameras did not swing our way during the game. Outside the stadium, though, Colin and I hurried to a random camera to wave my sign and cheer France’s victory. Perhaps someone—somewhere—saw us, but we did not receive reports of a sighting from anyone we knew.
Added sweetness to our World Cup adventures included being joined by twenty-four other Missoulians three days before USA played Belgium in the Round of 16. In Salvador. On game day, Rich, Colin and several of the Missoula crew bused to the Pelourinho, the Historic Centre, where they found a dance-club-turned-game-watching-venue to watch Argentina beat Switzerland.
Joined by a group of boisterous Belgians, there was playful bantering regarding the anticipated outcome of the USA vs Belgium match. Many of the Missoula fans shared a confidence that the US would triumph.
Dressed for victory, a faction of Missoulians was interviewed by Norwegian and Ukrainian television stations before the match, and by NBC and BeIN Sports after. ESPN captured them on camera, too; later replaying their enthusiasm on Sports Center.
But a victory was not to be had.
Still, it was thrilling to see the US play. Watching them, and witnessing Tim Howard’s record-breaking sixteen saves in a World Cup match, was priceless. They played a hard-fought battle and, though they lost, USA deserves a thumbs up for making it to the Round of 16.
The Belgium team deserves a thumbs up as well. Their fans’ cheers permeated the stadium at the end of extra-time as they reveled in their team’s success. Not wanting to watch their post-game celebration, we scooted to the exit.
As we made our way through the Pelourinho, a Brazilian woman stopped Eric and me. “She wants to talk to you,” she said, gesturing to the school-aged girl beside her.
“I just want to say,” the girl said in a quiet voice, “that I’m mad that we lost, but I think we’ll win the next World Cup.” She lived in California, she told us, and the woman, her aunt, lived in Salvador. Her mom had watched the game with them, too, “but she’s over there.” She motioned across the square before adding, “She’s mad.” We ended our conversation with smiles and a shared hope for a 2018 USA victory.
Two blocks later, we were stopped again in the Praça da Sé. A reporter asked Eric if she could interview him for TeleSUR, a Venezuelan news station. Serendipitous, since Eric had worked in Venezuela a few years ago. The reporter asked him to add my USA scarf to his nondescript blue shirt, then the camera rolled.
Throughout our stay, I watched people from all around the world come together, and I witnessed how quickly a smile or a thumbs up transcended language barriers. A special thumbs up for Joseph Santini, proprietor extraordinaire, and his entire staff of the Pousada Manga Rosa, Portal do Mar Restaurante, and Dolce Vita Pizzaria. They love their futbol. And I feel their pain.
