Grief isn’t the topic most people stop at a table to talk about. But last weekend, at the Oak Park Public Library’s local author event, they did.
I was one of about 30 local authors gathered in the Veterans Room, tables lined up with books and banners and the quiet hope that someone will walk over. I brought The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories That Shape Us, my memoir about reframing grief after the death of my husband, Ken. I also brought two free things for anyone who needed them—or knew someone who did: Letters I Carry: A Grief Journal, six letters you’ll write and never mail, and my “Five Things” cards, which list what you don’t have to do while grieving on one side and what not to say to a grieving friend on the other. That second side always starts the best conversations.
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about these events: half the work happens before the doors open. My friend Pam—my unofficial manager, a title she has never once requested and fully deserves—came over at 8:30 so we could be at the library a little after nine to set up. She’s the kind of person who shows up with a system while I’m still looking for the box with the tablecloth in it.
And then the doors opened, and it got decently packed. I sold books. I talked to people. Some brave souls actually put their names on my mailing list. But the moment I’ll carry with me came from the author at the next table. Her name is Gail, and she was there with a book she co-wrote with a friend called Women Over 70 — interviews with women who are flat-out redefining what that age means. It’s not over at 70, she told me, and she said it with the energy of someone who has receipts. She was a kick in the pants. This is the part of these events I forget to expect: the fellow travelers. Thirty people in one room who all decided the story they had to tell was worth hauling boxes for.
I have a confession, though. I took almost no pictures. There’s a struggle I think a lot of us know—being in a moment versus documenting it so you can post about it later. I err on the side of being in the moment, which makes for a quieter Instagram feed and, I hope, a fuller life. So you’ll have to take my word for how good it looked.
By the time we packed up, Pam and I had earned a late lunch at The Breakfast House in Oak Park. Get the turkey sandwich. Trust me.
Then I came home, took a nap with Hudson (the golden retriever abides), and ended the day with a glass of wine on the patio by the fire table. It was a long day in the best possible way. I’m very social and very outgoing—but I’m an introvert, which doesn’t mean shy. It means a day like yesterday fills me right up and empties me out at the same time. Extroverts get energy from crowds. I have to admire that from a distance, preferably a distance involving a fire table.
So, was it a success? A few books sold, some newsletter sign-ups, one unforgettable conversation with Gail. But here’s what I keep coming back to—the case for showing up to talk about grief in a library on a Saturday morning is simple. Almost everyone has grieved, and almost no one knows what to say about it. If one person left that room knowing one better thing to say to a grieving friend, then the boxes were worth hauling.
If you’re in Chicagoland, I’d love to see you next time. I’m at Gilda’s Club in mid-November for a reading — no sales table, just me and the book and the stories. Join the newsletter and check my Events page for info as it becomes available.
Write on! Ron
P.S. If grief has handed you something you don’t know what to do with, the Letters I Carry journal is free to download from my site. Start with the letter you’ll never send. That’s the one doing the work. You can get the PDF download by going to my instagram account (@ronstempkowski) and direct message me the word LETTERS. (Not a comment, but a direct message.)
Ron Stempkowski is the author of The Luck We Carry: Love, Loss, and the Stories That Shape Us, a memoir-in-essays about learning to move with grief instead of moving on. If this story resonated, you can grab a signed copy—complete with a handwritten note—at ronstempkowski.com, or get your copy wherever books are sold. And if you'd like more stories like this one, join the journey and get them straight in your inbox.