Karen Buley's Blog, page 2

The Beauty of Books

Unbeknownst to me in 1990, Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop highlighted the necessity of providing children with diverse books in an essay titled, “Mirrors, Windows, and Sliding Glass Doors.” That same year, I was immersed in an array of childbirth, parenting, and picture books. I loaded infant Colin and three-year-old Eric into their car seats for weekly excursions to Tiny Tales story time at our public library. Eric and I unpacked bagfuls of board books and picture books on our way in, then replenished our supply after Tiny Tales ended.

Occasionally, I carted those books plus some of our own to the childbirth education classes I taught and scattered them on my students’ chairs. At the beginning of class, I pitched our public library and the joys of reading to children, ending with my hope that my students’ babies, like mine, would find comfort in “warm laps and good books.”

Colin, Karen, and Eric Buley 1992

In 2017, years before I uncovered Dr. Bishop’s words, I penned a blog post titled, “Queer is not a bad word.” I reflected on my early parenting years, then added:

“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.”

My days of hands-on parenting, childbirth education, and obstetrical nursing are long behind me. Now, I work in a high school library. There’s a chance some students whom I helped to welcome into the world years earlier have since recommended books to me.

But students in parts of our country have less access to books than others do. As reported last month in U.S. News and World Report, “Book bans, while not a new phenomenon, have gained momentum in recent years. Censorship attempts have most recently targeted books that include LGBTQ characters or address issues of race and racism.”

In my quest to learn more, I discovered Dr. Bishop and her research. Her advocacy for literature that mirrors children’s experiences or provides glimpses or portals into the lives of others is more important now than ever, as I wrote in a June 16 Seattle Times Op-Ed.

Thirty-two years have passed since Dr. Bishop wrote: “When there are enough books available that can act as both mirrors and windows for all our children, they will see that we can celebrate both our differences and our similarities, because together they are what make us all human.”

If I were still teaching childbirth education classes, I would scatter board books and picture books—including The Day You Begin, Oglivy, Love Makes a Family, Antiracist Baby, and Love You Forever—on my students’ chairs. I would tell my students I have two adult children, “One is queer, and one is not, and I love them with all my heart.”

I would share my hope that their babies find delight in warm laps and good books, plus I would add a pair of fervent wishes. “May your children grow to discover and embrace their authentic selves, and may you harbor these words from Love You Forever in your hearts: ‘I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.’”

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A Horoscope. A Muse. A Tiny Love Story.

I read my horoscope nearly every day. Sometimes, I run with its forecast. Other times, I ignore every word. And on occasion, I embrace the parts I like and disregard the rest.

Eleven days ago, my horoscope’s opening line, “You’re in touch with your muse today, which is why this is a productive day for those of you who work in the arts or creative projects,” nudged me to revisit my writing from the previous year.

November 12, 2021

I focused on a 100-word story I had written about my mom and me for The New York Times Tiny Love Stories. After submitting the piece last November, I envisioned seeing it and an accompanying photo online and perhaps in print.

I did not.

Rereading my story, I resolved to try again. I scoured other Tiny Love Stories, certain their words were my muse. Then I plunged in, narrowing my story to a single moment.

Four days after that prophetic horoscope, I received an email from NYT editor Miya Lee. One week later, my amended Tiny Love Story was published online in The New York Times.

Oh. My. Heart.

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Montana Book Festival 2021

A few months ago, the Montana Book Festival 2021 (MBF) was on tap to offer in-person and online events. Then in August, rising COVID rates in Missoula County compelled the MBF Board of Directors to shift the entire Festival to virtual events.

On Saturday, October 16, China Reevers hosted the Montana Book Festival 2021 conversation with Eileen Garvin and me—“With a Little Help from My Friends: Writing Fictional Friendships.” I loved chatting with Eileen about our books—The Music of Bees and Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools—and the craft of writing. Our respective readings were highlights as well. In addition, the virtual format reached a wider audience, and the event was later uploaded to the Montana Book Festival’s YouTube channel.

Perhaps you didn’t have the opportunity to tune in. Or maybe you did, but you would like to revisit these questions:

Amy Knutson gourd and Karen Buley mirror

How did gourds, mirrors and a tweet shape Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools? What sounds like the parking lot behind the 7-Eleven? What might a budding orthopedic surgeon practice on? How long do honeybees live?

Find out the answers to these questions and more on the video below!

And invite me to visit your book club here.

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Flexibility, Resilience and 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.

Next month, I will hold my mom and dad in my heart when I present Perimenopausal Women with Power Tools to a bigger audience. I’m thrilled to be joining Eileen Garvin for a Montana Book Festival event—With a Little Help From My Friends: Writing Fictional Friendships.

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, bringing together 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, we have the night off.” I stroked her cheek.

“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. Those old 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.

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A Legacy of Love

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, Japan Dan Antonietti, 3rd from left Dan Antonietti, Ingle and Rivets. Kumagaya, Japan, 1947

Papa Dan’s love, loyalty and generous spirit blossomed as he became a 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.

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Library Musings 2021

I shelved cartloads of books in the Hellgate High School library this week. An assortment of fiction, nonfiction and graphic novels, the books were a confirmation that reading was alive and well and that we were moving toward pre-pandemic days.

Book checkouts had increased in February when we reinstated independent browsing. Lingering reminders of the COVID-19 pandemic remain though: disinfectant, hand sanitizer and alcohol wipes scattered throughout the library; masked students and staff; plexiglass barriers framing the circulation desk; social-distancing signs and one-chair-per-table workstations.

Hellgate High School Library

Two weeks ago, a senior greeted me with smiling eyes when I entered a bathroom near the neighboring Commons. ”I want to thank you librarians,” Kara said. “People talk about essential workers—like firemen and grocery store clerks and frontline workers—but I want to say, ‘what about librarians?’” She waved a hand. “You guys do so much and are essential…for knowledge. So, thank you!”

Her words upheld an article I had read days earlier, School Libraries Are the Bedrock of Freedom. As the authors state, “[Benjamin] Franklin’s belief—that libraries and education are crucial to democracy—has never been more true than in our current age of disinformation, with the threat it poses to the republic.”

Kara’s words reminded me, too, of a post I had written in 2015. My words, “She, and others, continue to affirm my conviction that libraries and books are two of our most precious resources,” ring truer now than ever before.

HHS library circulation desk

Protocols for the 2021-2022 school year are yet to unfold. I am hopeful that by August the plexiglass barriers and social-distancing signs will come down. Chairs will again bookend our tables. Our circulation desks will be busier than even before. And masks will be distant memories. I miss seeing faces and sharing smiles.

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Project Steady Eddie

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. Thankfully, neither break required surgery, but she was admitted for therapy and pain management. More lucid than not while she was in the Emergency Department, 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 her rehab.

Sometimes, Mom remembers why I’m rooming with her 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 outside her door, rarely used. 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 that 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.

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Montana’s 2020 Election

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.

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Labor Day

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 and July 8, Eric’s and Colin’s birthdays. I will never forget the bolt of realization as I followed our Lamaze teacher into Community Medical Center’s OB unit 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 was reminded of my OB stints when I met baby Anaya during a Zoom liturgy yesterday. Eight days old and a spit over five pounds, the sleeping newborn rushed a pang of nostalgia.

I have a wealth of joyful memories from the years I spent as a certified Lamaze instructor and OB nurse.

Andrew, 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 who continue to provide care for moms and babies, 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.

My parents taught me the value of labor unions during my childhood in Butte, Montana. 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. My mom’s nursing tales sparked my interest in her profession. And at eighty-nine, she still gets a twinkle in her eye when she regales me with stories.

Kay Antonietti, my sweet mom

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1968 Words Ring True

I rediscovered two messages from my parents in my Log -o-Life. My “baby book,” its four-page index implies a long and productive life. Numerous pages are incomplete. Some are not applicable, like “Doctor of Philosophy Diploma” and “Military Record.” Others reference experiences that slipped by, unrecorded: High School Activities, Transcript of College Credits, Publications, Middle Age Photo, and more. There are seven pages for autographs, but only one entry. Laurie Antonietti – 11/10/69.

Karen & Laurie Antonietti 1965



Dan & Kay Antonietti 1965

My parents penned their notes on my dad’s forty-first birthday—November 25, 1968. My mom was thirty-seven. Written to a preadolescent baby boomer, their words are precious. Many are timeless.

“The game of life is a challenge. Especially for your generation. Play it fair and always play it to the best of your ability. Retain your faith, be charitable to all and refuse to do wrong.”

“Stand by your convictions and what you have been taught and know what is right – always be charitable to all – and honest with yourself and others, and just always do your best.”

Dan, Karen, & Kay Antonietti 1970

My dad has been gone three and a half years.

My mom, on the cusp of her eighty-ninth birthday, lives at Touchmark, a senior living community. COVID-19 restrictions have limited her interactions with family and non-Touchmark friends. Aside from a pair of respites piggybacked onto medical appointments, she has had one outing since March. Following a doctor visit three weeks ago, she waited in the car while I ran into Target. She needed laundry detergent, but I had to remind her she could not go into the store.

When I returned to the car, she said, “A lot of people aren’t wearing those things…I can’t believe it.” She pointed to her mask. “We might have this for the rest of our lives.” She sighed. “Do you think they’ll be able to have the wedding?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

Mom’s memory waxes and wanes, and sometimes she struggles with words. But she remembered something about the pandemic. And her thoughts swung to the granddaughter who had already rescheduled her wedding once.

When I reread these words from long ago, I was reminded of our conversation in the Target parking lot. If my dad had been in the car with us, he would have echoed what my mom tried to say.

Be charitable to all. And wear a mask.

Helena Women’s March January 2020

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