Nine Lives

In Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Tybalt asks Mercutio: What wouldst thou have with me? Mercutio responds: Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. Even in the 1500’s, the superstition that cats have nine lives existed. Although I don’t know where this belief comes from, I can attest to its accuracy when it comes to my family cat, Kari, who has consistently defied the odds against her.

I remember the day when my dad, a dog lover, told us that we could finally get the cat we had been begging for. We were stationed in Oslo, Norway at the time, and we picked her because she was the most playful, the feistiest of the bunch. A Norwegian forest cat, she would roam outside for hours, returning in the winter with icicles hanging off her fur and whiskers, and in the summer with branches and twigs tangled in her tail. She often would leave us “presents” on the doorstep, as Kari always has been a hunter. When it was time to leave Norway, she was upgraded to first-class where she had a personal flight attendant watching her—we, meanwhile, were stuck in economy, sharing a flight attendant with the other 70 passengers.

We arrived in Michigan in September and then moved to Illinois in January, Kari moving each time with us. In Illinois one winter night, Kari was outside, as she usually was. But, as we had just moved there, the neighborhood was unfamiliar. That night, it snowed, and Kari couldn’t find her way home. We plastered the neighborhood with her picture and advertised a $50 reward; kids from all over would bring us black and white cats in the hopes that they had found our lost Kari and could claim the money. After three months, we had lost hope and assumed that Kari was gone forever.

I had been at cheerleading practice one afternoon when my dad came to pick me up. As I got in the car, he casually mentioned there was a surprise waiting for me at home, but would say nothing more. I walked into our home in Rantoul and in the kitchen sat Kari, about half the size she was when I last saw her. A neighborhood child told my sister she saw a black and white cat; in one last attempt, my sister followed her where, about three blocks away from our home, she spied a Norwegian forest cat. She yelled Kari’s name and our feisty cat came running to her arms. Amanda cradled Kari on the way home and to the vet that afternoon; after a clean bill of health, we took our Kari home.

Since then, Kari has lived in Arizona, where she escaped from coyotes, snakes and gila monsters, and now she resides in Maryland. About five years ago, Kari was diagnosed with FIV, feline HIV. When I see her, I still remember the kitten who would sleep on my neck; the cat who would climb up our burlap wall in Norway rather than take the stairs; my pet who has given me a handful of scars as I tried, without success, to hold her against her will; and now the aging darling who still purrs when I pet her face.

Despite being lost for several months, moving numerous times, being in more fights than you can imagine, and having a crippling disease, Kari recently turned 20. Kari is without a doubt a survivor and I only hope she still has a few more lives left: Happy birthday, Kari!

Kari as a kitten in Norway

Kari in Arizona

Kari, age 20, still enjoying the outdoors in Maryland

Tea and Soup

Andy and I arrived in Maryland on Friday night, after a rather long drive on the car-filled Jersey turnpike. Tired and frustrated, we lugged our luggage and laundry up the walkway, and standing in the warm light of the kitchen window was my mother. George Eliot once wrote, “Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face.” As life continues, I still find very little that compares to the comfort and love I feel when I see my mother’s face.

After dropping off our bags, we went into the kitchen, where brewing on the stove was one of my favorite soups – fresh vegetable (only slightly second to her homemade chicken noodle). I eagerly scooped a bowl of soup when my mom said, “Lis, come here, I want to show you something.” I followed her to the garage, where she had bought out the commissary of my favorite tea—after searching the town for weeks to find it. As I sat down with my bowl of soup and tea, I couldn’t help but think how very fortunate I am to have a mother who gives so much. I know everyone is partial to their mother, but I do know I hit the jackpot.

Later that night, as I lay next to Andy, I started to cry, overcome with love and emotion for my mother—this woman who has given me so much; who has shown me the importance of family, of love and of enjoying life; who encouraged me to be my own person, even when I wanted to cling to her; who supported me through periods when I had no friends at school or was changing careers; who persuaded me to attend a college 3,000 miles away from family when she knew it would open more doors for me; who always put me, and my future, first.

Even though there are no words that can adequately thank my mother for all she has done for me, I would still like to say thank you, Mom, for everything—for the love and support, for the strong example you set, for being such an amazing, kind and remarkable woman, for the soup and tea. I love you.

My mother with all three of her children

My high school graduation with my mom and dad

At my wedding with my sister

Road Trips

An old favorite of mine is Willie Nelson’s On the Road Again. My favorite part of the song was:

On the road again,
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again,
And I can't wait to get on the road again.

I used to sing this song religiously on our family car trips—at the start of the trip, after every bathroom break, lunch stop. There is something so freeing about a road trip, something so exciting about packing a bag of snacks, getting your favorite songs queued up and hitting the open road.

As a child, I loved road trips because they were taking me to someplace new, but now, I love them for a different reason. This afternoon, Andy and I will start a four-hour road trip to visit my family in Maryland. As we are sometimes ships passing in the night, I have found these road trips have taken on a new meaning: they are a time to reconnect, to talk about the week, future plans, our thoughts and ideas. I love that time. I no longer see a road trip as just a means to get somewhere, but now I cherish the trip itself.

And, I have found my new perspective on road trips has taught me a good life lesson: instead of always looking at the destination, enjoy the journey, the time around you. So, as I am about to embark on our mini road trip, I can’t help but think how excited I am to have four hours of time with just Andy—I can’t wait to get on the road again.

Matching Bracelets

There are some people who come into your life, and there are some people who are born into your life. My sister was born when I was three years old. I remember bickering with my older brother when my mom was pregnant about whether the baby would be a boy or a girl; I, of course, wanted a sister. When she finally arrived in this world, I was ecstatic (and not only because I won the bet). Having a sister is one of the most wonderful things in the world, even despite the teenage years when you are arguing about wearing each others’ shoes and reading the latest Seventeen before the other gets to see it.

I recently spent five days in Costa Rica with Amanda—five days of uninterrupted sister time. Not only did we have a chance to conquer the rapids of the Pacuare River, swim in and zip-line through the rainforest, hike and tour nearby coffee fields, take a salsa class (followed by an impromptu dance party with just us and the one other guest there), and practice yoga twice a day, we also had time to talk—about our lives, our fears, our hopes, our dreams. Sitting in the dining room at the yoga retreat where we stayed, we would cause stares of unbelief as we would laugh till our stomachs hurt and we were ready to pee our pants. Moments like those, moments when you are sitting with your sister, reminiscing and giggling, surrounded by the lush landscape of Costa Rica, remind you how beautiful life can be.

As we were sitting in the airport, waiting for my sister’s flight to board, we saw two little girls walk by—one was around three and the other was about five. They were holding hands, had similar bobs, and were wearing identical white button-down shirts, denim pants and red Keds. We looked at them and chuckled, remembering the matching perms, yellow shirts and green plaid pants, jellies and denim jumpers. As they walked through the airport, hand-in-hand, I wished for them a lifetime of that—a lifetime of having a sister, a friend, to share the delights and tribulations of life. I am so grateful I won that bet, and I love that my sister is still there to walk by me, hand-in-hand, wearing our matching yoga bracelets.

Amanda and I in our matching outfits and perms.

Our matching bracelets from Costa Rica.

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My Travel Buddy

Love pushes you to travel great distances, both within yourself and outside of it. In fact, I believe there are few things that are as life changing, as love not only changes the path your life takes, it changes who you are—you can become someone you never thought possible, test yourself to try something you never dreamed achievable. You grow, sometimes challenging the person you were, and yet you must always strive to preserve you—the wonderful you that fell in love and was fallen in love with.

This morning, my alarm went off at 4:20am—an ungodly hour that few see, or should see. I got up, packed away the last remaining items, double-checked to make sure I had my passport and boarding pass, and then woke my sleeping husband. He groggily arose from bed, started his coffee, and in ten minutes, was in the drivers’ seat heading to Newark International Airport. There are grand gestures of love, and there are the everyday, unadorned gestures of love. This morning, with his modest act, I was reminded that I am loved.

Now, as I sit on a plane traveling to Costa Rica where I will meet my sister (which I cannot wait for!), I am reminded how I am usually sitting next to Andy. I miss my travel buddy—my partner who lets me rest my head on his shoulder, who explores a new place with tremendous vigor and excitement, who pushes me to zip-line when I really don’t want to. But, I still have the taste of his simple act of love this morning. Yes, love can take you great distances, but sometimes it takes you on a 40-minute car ride.

My travel buddy and I across the world in...

Greece

Italy

South Africa

Lottery Tickets

The other day, I was walking through midtown Manhattan when I saw a man leaning against some scaffolding surrounding a sky rise; he wore a once white, now gray, construction hard hat, battered and torn jeans, and scuffed steel-toe boots. In his tanned and worn hands, he held six lottery tickets and a dingy penny. You could see a slight smile cross his weathered face as he continued to scratch the ticket, hoping it would reveal something grand. The image of this tired man, still brimming with faith and anticipation, resonated with me.

Most everyone knows the odds are against someone when a lottery ticket is purchased; and yet, millions are sold every year. My father persistently buys lottery tickets, and with every ticket, he wishes that this is the one—this will be the one that changes everything. I remember when we were planning my wedding, he would come home from the local convenience store, grinning, lottery tickets in hand, look at me and say, “This one is going to pay for the whole thing.” The sparkle in his eye as he checked the paper the next morning was still there, still hoping he had a winner, even though he knew he probably did not.

Despite the grim statistics, my father, the man I passed on the street, and thousands of others still believe in the possibility of something great. Emily Dickinson once wrote, “Hope is that thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops... at all.” To anyone who has ever dreamed and hoped for a better tomorrow, keep singing, keep believing.

A Return to Childhood

--> -->My sister recently sent me photos of my family’s trip to Michigan. As a kid, we would travel from Texas to Michigan via car, usually around the 4th of July. Most of these trips were taken in a rather unreliable, past-its-prime, orange station wagon…with no air conditioning. And yet, these trips were some of the most enjoyable of my life; not because the location was so exotic and new, but the opposite: because it was so familiar.
I remember as you would approach the “hills” right outside of Alpena, you knew you were getting close, and the butterflies in your stomach would start to flutter; as you reached the town limits, the butterflies were birds and your heart was thumping, anxious to see your family and old haunts—the putt-putt golf course on the beach, the domed Dairy Queen, Bob’s Big Boy, 432 Dawson Street and 117 Lewis Street. And, then, the station wagon would make that final left turn onto Dawson, and you were so close you were bursting with excitement! At my mom’s mother’s house, you would open the screen door and step inside—the sound of the plastic runner in the hallway under your feet and the smell of Polish sausage drifting through the hall made you realize you were once again home. And when we visited my dad’s parents’ house, it was the same thing: I would stand, transfixed with the miniature shamrock tea cups in the front room and the family photographs from years before lining the walls of the living room, even though I had seen both a million times before. It was the sense of arriving, of being home, that was so easy and recognizable, and yet still enthralling.

Towns change, people come and go, but in seeing those photos, it was like a time capsule had opened: my grandparents were there to greet me with a warm hug, the swing in the backyard under the chestnut tree was inviting me to play, Abitibi was lingering in the air, but, most importantly, the joy and happiness of those times came rushing back.

As we get older, and our ambitions take over, I think we stop treasuring those simple moments. So, I am taking this moment to remember a familiar trip, filled with wonderful people, laughter and love, and cherishing the time we had.