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Inherited Roads

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

This started as a Facebook tribute to my dad on his 79th birthday. It began to wander into a narrative as winding as the roads we’ve traveled and the lives we’ve lived, and I thought, well, some things are bigger than Facebook.
Because how do you fit a lifetime of stories, sarcasm, and shared miles into a single post? Maybe this one just needed a little more room to stretch its legs, unfold its map, and find its way home.

Happy 79th Birthday to my dad: proof that genetics are wild and wonderful things. Scientifically, I’m 50% Jack and 50% Sandy (I think that’s how it works, but I’m no scientist). If you know me well enough, or look closely, you can probably pick out which pieces belong to which half. Most people think I take after my mum, and in looks, humor, wit, and occupation, I do. I don’t look like my dad, and my personality, well, that’s all Sandy.

I was the firstborn, which means I came into the world with the full, undivided attention of two brand-new parents. That lasted about thirteen months, until the twins showed up and the spotlight had to stretch a little thinner, or, on most days, disappear entirely. To this day, the family joke is about who is Mom’s favorite (spoiler alert: it’s Ryan), but I’ve always known, and still know, that I am Dad’s. Not in the spoiled or sugary “Daddy’s girl” kind of way, but in the quiet, unspoken kind that lives in the spaces between shared jokes and long drives. Ryan and Jenny might disagree, but that’s okay, they’re just jealous.

My dad is quiet and grounded. He doesn’t command attention or draw a crowd, not because he can’t, but because he doesn’t need to. He’s steady, thoughtful, the kind of man who listens more than he talks. But when he does speak, you should listen; it’s usually something important or something crudely funny you won’t want to miss. (Or, if you ask my mum, sometimes a little bitchy, but you can’t be perfect all the time.)

I’ve always been able to draw the lines between my father and me; our shared love of stories, our passion for travel and getting lost, our comfort in quiet, wild places. But if I had to pinpoint the moment that line was firmly drawn, it would be my solo trip to Colorado.

When I got to Denver and Fox Rental Cars, I bought a road map off the counter on a whim. An honest-to-God, unfold-it-till-it-rips, paper map. I didn’t need it; my phone sat on the dashboard, smug and certain, whispering turn-by-turn directions. But I wanted it.

The guy at the counter looked at me quizzically. He had tried to sell me extra insurance and a hardier 4×4 vehicle when he heard where I was headed, but all I wanted was that dusty map. My dad always had maps tucked into the seat pocket of the car, their edges soft from use, highways traced in pen, towns circled for reasons long forgotten.

When we traveled, it was always an honor to be the kid who got to hold the map and look for exits on highways where we could stop to eat or pee, and find our next stop. Maybe that’s where it started: my need to see where the road goes, to trust my own sense of direction even when I’m not entirely sure of it.

When I got into the car, I pulled a highlighter and pen from my bag (#educatorlife) and traced my route from Denver to Grand Lake on the map. I placed stars next to possible lookouts and scenic stops along the way. Then I set Google Maps to my hotel in Grand Lake and was off.

Throughout the thousand-mile journey around Eastern Colorado (Grand Lake was just my first stop), my dad was with me every step of the way. He’d text me randomly about alternate routes I might take or places he’d been that I shouldn’t miss. He shared stories and directions like breadcrumbs, as if he were quietly riding shotgun.

No one in my immediate family has an iPhone, so it was up to my friend Scott to track my location and AirTag, just in case I was eaten by a bear or fell off a cliff. Something my dad has worried about since I was old enough to walk and, therefore, climb over guardrails for a better look. In that, maybe we differ, or maybe it’s just age. Jack hates when I don’t stick to the trail or get too close to the edge.

I suppose I didn’t inherit a highly developed sense of self-preservation from either of them, which both my parents continue to lament.

There was one day in particular. I was still in Grand Lake, fresh off a weak attempt at snowshoeing, my first time. I literally took decorative (but real – they said I could use them) snowshoes from the wall of the hotel and set off with no direction or education on how to use them. Self-preservation and common sense be damned. 

Solo in Rocky Mountain National Park, I ended up buried to my neck in a snowdrift, convinced I was living out some Stephen King–esque scene and wouldn’t be found until summer when the snow finally melted. My head, sticking out of the snowmelt and mud, half-eaten by wildlife, a sad note scrawled in blood on a tissue stuffed into my bra: maybe Get busy living, or get busy dying, or simply, We all float down here. That’s all it would say. My final tribute to the world, a borrowed line from Stephen King and proof of my lack of creativity, but deep love for great literature and one-liners. (I know my dad is smiling and shaking his head as he reads this… even if it is dark.)

After that, I decided exploring from the safety of my car was the smarter option. (Second spoiler alert: I got out. It wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t happy, and I had snow lodged in places I didn’t know existed, but here I am.) I pulled out my trusty map and highlighted a few places I wanted to see. I found myself on roads with no names, no lines, no paving, and definitely no signs. I just drove.

I chased an eagle into someone’s driveway trying to snap a photo. They chased me off with a shotgun in hand. I found a quiet reservoir where an osprey fished for nearly an hour, and I sat watching, camera in hand, capturing shot after shot. (Did I mention my dad gave me my first real camera?)

There were hours where I didn’t see another car, and I didn’t care. I was free. The world was mine. And in those moments, I would find myself whispering to Moosen, “Oh, Jack would have loved this.”

Out there in the Rockies, windows cracked to the cold, I realized I wasn’t driving alone. I was following inherited roads, his steady hands on the wheel in the way I trace a ridgeline, his patience in the way I wait for the osprey to dive, his caution tugging my sleeve when I lean a bit too far over the guardrail or cross it all together. Maybe I don’t have his face, but I have his miles. And they fit.

The truth is, my dad and I have always traveled in parallel lanes. He taught me that work is a kind of motion too, something steady and honest that keeps you grounded while you chase whatever horizon calls your name.

He was a teacher by degree, but true to Jack-fashion, he obeyed no man or master. He struck out to make his own way, his own fortune, his own company, and he succeeded. Proof that if you work hard enough, and long enough, you can build something lasting. He’s still working today at his company that’s as old as I am. I wish he wasn’t. I wish he would just retire (again). I’ve told him before, Go then, there are other worlds than these. But even the words and wisdom of Roland Deschain don’t convince him. And I get it, deep in my soul, even when I don’t want to admit it, I do get it.

The company is as much his baby as his three children are. It’s his name, his reputation, his life; countless, thankless hours poured into something tangible and valuable. It defines him the way my work defines me. It’s why he answers emails at all hours, finishes quotes on deadlines, and works on vacation. I understand it because I do that too.

But legacy and creation aren’t just in what we build or where we go; they’re in what we tell and imagine. And my dad could imagine. It’s the stories, he had one for everything, that showed off his particular brand of genius. When he told them, you could see him come alive, winding up and taking off into something bizarre and fantastic, and sometimes, well, a little scary.

This was the man who used to tell us that tunnels, of which there are plenty when you grow up in Pittsburgh or travel through West Virginia and Virginia, were filled with Noop-Nops.

If you’re wondering, no one actually knows what a Noop-Nop is. But what I can tell you, with absolute certainty, is that they live in tunnels and other dark places. They have wings like bats and furry bodies; the adults can get pretty big, two or three feet tall, with sharp fangs and razor-sharp claws. If you’ve read From a Buick 8, you can see them. For the record, that book came out long after Noop-Nops were invented, Stephen King just put a face to them…at least for me.

To avoid them, you have to follow the rules. When entering a tunnel, make sure your headlights are on, your doors are locked, and your windows are rolled up tight. Sure, you’ll hear them, the tapping and banging on the car as you pass through, but if you follow the proper safety procedures, you’ll make it out the other side unscathed.

Maybe that’s where my love of scary stories really started, not with The Boogeyman or Cujo, but with the Noop-Nops. My dad invented the monsters, but he also taught me not to flinch when the dark got loud.

He had me read The Boogeyman when I was about ten, and I’ve been a horror junkie ever since.

What people who don’t like horror don’t understand is that it isn’t about the gore or the fright; it’s about the possibility. The unknown. That’s what keeps you turning the page, coming back again and again. There’s something primal about being scared; it reminds you what it means to feel everything all at once. It wakes something ancient in you, something that refuses to sleep. It sharpens your senses, pulls you back into yourself, makes your palms sweat and your heart race. For those moments, you are completely present.

When you close your eyes, the nightmares that follow are worth the fear, because you wake up exhilarated, grateful, and so incredibly alive. Fear, after all, is just curiosity in disguise. The same instinct that makes you turn the page also hums beneath your skin, a magnetic pull toward whatever waits just out of sight.

I think that’s what I really got from him, not just the map habit or the camera or Stephen King, not even the wanderlust itself, but the compass. The quiet, internal one that says, go see for yourself, and the equally quiet one that says, get home safe, check under your bed, and close the closet door. He gave me the discipline to plan a route and the nerve to ignore it. He taught me that hard work is just another kind of journey: you show up, you keep moving, you learn the road as you walk it.

In those gifts was also wonder. The kind that makes you look twice at the sky, pull over for an osprey, or read just one more chapter even when you’re scared. He taught me that life isn’t meant to be tidy or predictable; it’s meant to be lived. To take the road with no lines, the tunnel filled with Noop-Nops, the story that keeps you up at night. To love fiercely, work hard, and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

And maybe that’s what it really means to live and love and inherit a story. It’s not the paths we’re handed, but the courage to travel them. The map might tear, the ink might fade, but the compass, his compass, still points true.

Always home.

This Is Forty-Eight… Forty-Nine?

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

Another trip around the sun, another year older, and somehow, it still catches me off guard. Birthdays don’t make me sentimental anymore; they make me aware, of time, of motion, of all the ways I’ve changed and stayed the same. Forty-eight feels too young to feel this wise, too old to feel this curious. But here I am, somewhere in between, still learning what it means to live wide open.

Thank you to everyone who took the time yesterday to wish me a happy birthday.
Hard to believe I’m forty-eight… wait, forty-nine? No, forty-eight. I think. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.

Sometimes I panic when I think about things like, “In 2030, we’ll install new social studies standards.” Not because of the standards, but because of the 2030. I can still remember partying like it was 1999 when it actually was 1999.

I remember being ten, with parents who were forty, and thinking they were ancient. Now, with parents who are seventy-eight and seventy-nine (I’m forty-eight, nailed it; my mum is thirty years older than me), I think about how young they still are and how much time we still have left to travel and explore.

I no longer measure time in minutes and seconds. In frat parties or nightclubs or boys. I think in weeks, months, and years. About retirement plans and portfolios. Menopause and hip replacements. I curse at my phone, send words instead of memes, and laugh because, well, here I am, the person my parents warned me about. The person they swore I’d become.

I went from wild and carefree to achy and crotchety seemingly overnight.
I turn down the music when it’s raining too hard because I can’t see well when it’s too loud. I brace for the “oof” every morning when I crawl out of bed, my knees, hips, and back punishing me for the years I punished them in sports, and in stupid (but also fun) things like Spartan races.
I track BOGO sales at grocery stores and make meal plans instead of eating leftover pizza I found on my dorm room floor or tacos I found under my pillow.
I still love unsensible shoes, but I only wear them when it’s sensible.
I haven’t yet started calling the front desk when the room next door is too loud, but I might have knocked… politely… on the wall once or twice.
And I definitely don’t have TikTok.

Sometimes I stumble across old photos from college, me in my purple plastic skirt, that shiny green jacket (also plastic) I thought made me invincible, and I wish I could tell that girl how beautiful she was before the world convinced her she wasn’t. How thin she was. How unbreakable she’d turn out to be.

I wish I could tell her that strength doesn’t come from holding everything together; it comes from falling apart and finding a way back. That every wound, even the ones that felt fatal, would scab over and diminish in time. That the broken hearts and tear-soaked pillows, the stupid boys and stupid girls and cruel words, would one day shrink down into stories she’d tell with a laugh.

I wish I could tell her the world wasn’t ending every time someone ghosted her, or when she cried herself sick over someone who probably sells insurance in Ohio now and hasn’t explored the Rocky Mountains alone. That those sleepless nights were wasted on people who didn’t deserve to know her favorite songs. That those long nights waiting for the phone to ring were keeping her from hearing herself instead.

And that those wounds, now faint scars, would become the very fabric that built her. How every break had taught her to bend. Sturdy, imperfect, a little frayed in spots, but hers and hers alone. The kind of fabric that softens with time yet still holds up after every wash. The jeans you still wear from high school. The T-shirt that almost smells like him. The thread that runs through every version of herself, binding the girl she was to the woman she became.

If I could, I would pull that thread tight, trace it back to where it started, and I’d find her again, the girl who didn’t yet know what she was made of. I wish I could tell her that one day she’d grow up, be respected, earn a doctorate, and realize the people she once tried so hard to impress no longer even exist in her memory.

I’ve said before that while I have regrets, I don’t live with them, and that still holds true. They’re memories, not weights. Reminders, not anchors.

At forty-eight, I feel lucky to be where I am.

I have a handful of really good friends, the kind who’ve seen me at my worst and still answer the phone at two in the morning if I call in a panic… or a rage… or just because I’m bored. They send me pictures of otters, leave voice memos of themselves singing on my birthday, drop off authentic All Dressed chips on my doorstep, send random memes about leaves and how much the bitches love them, show up at my dissertation defense at eleven o’clock Netherlands time, still cut and style my hair, or jet off for a weekend in Vegas that we still don’t talk about. They visit me in Charlotte when they’re passing through, or maybe just to curl for the weekend, and leave little gifts on my desk because they thought of me and my ridiculous obsession with all things cats.

I have a best friend. The kind who calls when I’m too sad to talk, sits in silence while I cry, and only hangs up once she knows I’m in bed. The kind of friend who travels with me, who knows my darkest secrets, my worst impulses, my deepest fears, and still always shows up. She calls me on my shit but never judges me… at least not too harshly… and she always calls me back.

And I have a partner who celebrates me, ignores my tantrums, and indulges my weird whims. Who takes trips with me on the off chance we might see moosen. Who sometimes makes a steak dinner better than anything Ruth’s Chris or Morton’s is serving up, and who always drives me to the airport when I’m off on another adventure, kisses me goodbye, and reminds me that he loves me.

I’d go to the mattresses for all of them without a second thought, because, frankly, several of them know where the bodies are buried and because without them, I’d be lost.

I have a family that is mostly intact. I’ve felt the loss of matriarchs and patriarchs, of beloved uncles and family friends I once thought of as surrogate parents. Each loss has become a reminder of family itself, of love, of togetherness, of how deeply we belong to one another even as the seats around the table begin to empty.

Despite my general optimism, I’ve started to live more in the now, because I’ve grown acutely aware of borrowed time and the absence of any guaranteed tomorrow. I sometimes wish I’d understood the meaning of family when I was younger, but I’ve come to learn it’s something that has to grow on you over time, like moss… or maybe fungus. You have to grow old to understand what old means. You have to experience loss to comprehend the hollowness it leaves behind. And you cannot fully understand love until you’ve stepped out of the light it once provided. But each loss, in its own way, brings you closer to those who remain in the void and learn to share that space with you.

But through it all, I know I have a place to call home, even if it isn’t brick and mortar or tied to a single point on a map. Sometimes family is forty-seven text notifications bitching about the Penguins’ power play.

Home, like family, isn’t always simple. Love and belonging come with their own messiness, their own friction. Because comfort doesn’t erase complexity. Family, like time, teaches in layers; some soft, some sharp.

I’ve also felt the strain that politics and pride can bring to a family, and I’ve lamented the silliness of those silences. The stubbornness that builds walls where laughter used to live. Yet even those moments have carried lessons. I no longer see myself as a child at the whim of adults trying to mold me, or as an adult bending to other adults who believe they still can. It’s a strange dance. The old and the young, elders and youngers, respect and mutual understanding. Learning to be cautious and kind, yet steadfast, confident, and self-advocating. It has taught me to love without question or condition, and to forgive, but never to cave.

The same lessons have found their way into every other corner of my life, especially my work.

I have a job I enjoy and take pride in, work that still challenges me, that still matters. The kind of work that sometimes keeps me up at night and wears me thin, yet always reminds me I’m part of something bigger than myself, that my days are spent doing something that outlives the hours it takes.

I’ve finished my education as far as degrees go, but the learning hasn’t stopped, it’s just changed shape.
Now it looks like airports and conversations and quiet mornings where the lesson is simply being present.

I travel. I wander. I wonder. I explore.

Not to escape, but to keep learning what it means to be alive in all the small, ordinary ways, because the world keeps getting bigger the older I get, and each place teaches me something new about who I was, who I am, and who I’m still becoming.

Because no matter how far I go, the journey always circles back to me. Every new horizon holding up a mirror, reminding me that growth isn’t just about the miles traveled, but the grace earned along the way.

I still sometimes cry into my pillow, and I know heartache doesn’t fade with age, but I also know it isn’t the end of the world. It just shifts the landscape. And it’s up to me to decide how I want to walk it.

To all the little girls and boys out there, the ones who think thirty or forty is old, just wait. It really does get better with age. You get better with age.

If you have a dream, chase it. If you want to go somewhere, buy the ticket. Money is something you can always make tomorrow, and things just gather dust. Real living happens at the intersection of let’s do it and holy shit, I’m terrified.

So do it scared. Live life on the precipice between caution and the wind. That’s where the good stories come from anyway.

Because that’s the secret no one tells you about getting older, it’s not about slowing down; it’s about finally knowing when to jump.

Mismanaged Mischief

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

Author’s Note: This story, or blog, or poem, I don’t know what is, started as a text a friend. But it had legs and substance and I kicked it around a bit until it become this idea…this…perhaps…so one night, when I had some time, and needed a distraction, I decided to write it down. But as I polished it, I realized that I needed a disclaimer, because, well because anything we put out there just does these days…

I know fireworks aren’t great. They’re bad for pets, bad for veterans, bad for the planet. They cause fires and injuries and air pollution. Trust me, I know. And it’s something I wrestle with every year. So if, after you read this, you still want to chastise me, go ahead. I get it. I won’t complain or stop you. I know the risks. In some ways, I’m a total hypocrite. I signed a petition to ban them in Big Bear Valley to protect Jackie, Shadow, Gizmo, and Sunny… so yeah, you get to do what you need to do.

But… this isn’t a love letter to fireworks.

It’s about something older. Deeper. More personal.
Louder, in a way.
Quieter, too, I suppose.

It’s about love and magic, being young, growing up, and all the feelings I have as a middle-aged woman in the thick of all the crises I’m supposed to be feeling and probably a few I’m not. About how sometimes I wish I could take it all back. A mulligan. A do-over. Another shot at 20… or 30. And how sometimes, I wonder if they feel the same. What if they got a do-over? A shot at redemption? What if they made a different decision?

I wouldn’t be mad.
Hell, I wouldn’t even know.

It’s about the stuff we don’t talk about at dinner.
And how, sometimes, in the right kind of darkness,
that ember beckons…

Mismanaged Mischief

Uncle Jack brings the big ones,
from some backroad stand in South Carolina
or maybe West Virginia,
the kind of place where warning labels fade in the sun,
and the whistle of a soft, sibilant s through missing incisors
makes she’s a beaut sound so much like Randy Quaid
you want to die from the perfection of it.

I don’t know.
I’m not there.

I’ve never been invited to witness the purchase.
But in my imagination, I’ve seen the displays,
boxes called Bamboozled, Honey Badger,
and Fresh Hot Bacon.
And I can picture,
in the most horrid, stereotypical fashion,
the man peddling large, incendiary devices
to my almost 80-year-old father.
And I always wonder:
is this the year someone loses a digit?

The real show will be just past dusk,
almost full dark,
when the sky softens into those pink and blue hues
the tourists take photos of.
You can set your watch by the retreat of the damp curtain
of coastal tides and winds
that lift just enough to let you breathe,
but still press against your skin
so you don’t forget:
Summer makes you earn the night.

His transformation though, that comes early.
Long before dusk or touristy Instagram memories.
I’ve never actually seen it,
but I know the signs.
Him shifting, edging backward through time
toward adolescence and carefree reverie.
It starts with a punk,
something I always call a pongee stick,
which makes him laugh every year.
I can see it burning against the dark grass,
a single ember in the shadows of almost-night.
That’s my cue to remind him
to be grown-up,
but it’s always too late.

Suddenly, he’s twelve again,
lobbing black cats at our feet,
cackling when we flinch,
tucking bottle rockets into our empty beer bottles,
tilting them skyward with the precision of chaos.
His eyes burn with youth,
mischief once gotten and long passed,
the echo of it,
a flare that won’t last.

They start moving toward the end of dock,
a wagon and small children in tow,
our only cue to get in or get out,
History has taught us to watch from the yard,
Because at least once,
he’s sent a mammoth screamer into the sound,
where some poor fish,
just swimming by and minding his own business,
met his fate,
bobbing like a question we couldn’t answer,
surfacing to threaten the fragile line between should we or
shouldn’t we.

I guess we’re all in,
we find our seats,
and suddenly the tell tale HISSSSSSS of the first wave
erupts into purple blooms and silver rain,
green comets that crackle and fly haphazardly,
red chrysanthemums that shatter into stars fall around us.

The crowd oohs.

The kids gasp.

The sparks fall in slow motion,
some of them too low
or too close,
I wonder, are the gasps awe or oh?
The displays from the island
and up and down the coast mirror ours,
and if you sit in just the right place,
it’s like watching fireworks in stereo.
And just like that,
We are all twelve again.

I no longer sit on the dock,
under the action.
In my old age, I’ve opted for a safer,
more respectable seat in the yard.

But I never stray far,
the vigilant eldest daughter,
Keeper of Mismanaged Mischief,
Queller of Fun.
I make sure,
I can still hear him.
I can still see him.

He laughs like someone
who’s forgotten to be tired.
And for a moment,
so do I.
And it’s so easy to get lost
in the pageantry of it all,
the opulence,
the awesomeness.

I look at my father.
See him.
Eyes lit with color,
mouth open in a boy’s laughter
I rarely hear anymore,
a laugh that time,
and age,
and responsibility
have folded into a box
labeled special occasions only.

I want to scream,
WAIT!
We aren’t ready yet.
It’s not time yet.

But in the dark,
the pongee stretches out,
licks the final fuse,
and the finale brings us to our feet,

I have nothing left to protest.

It’s over.

A lingering smoke cloud
and the faint smell of sulfur in the air,
the only trace
that the veil between is and was
had unraveled.
Just long enough to let him through.
But time erases,
and magic fades,
and just like that, he’s gone.

And the boy I never knew,
goes quiet again.

The squeaky wheel of the wagon returning
lets me know I’m right.

And it hits me,
maybe it isn’t fireworks we’re talking about at all.

Onward, Always… mostly

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ 1 Comment

I started writing this five years ago—something I planned to read at the 50th anniversary party we had in the works. But a global pandemic had other plans and crushed both our gathering and my beautiful Canva invitations in one fell swoop (I still have them).

I found the piece again a few months ago while combing through some old files. It was titled “Geez, Jack,” and curiosity made me open it. I’d honestly forgotten I’d even started it. But I knew right away: I needed to finish it by April 11.

As I reworked it, updated the timeline, and started searching for a title, I laughed out loud when “Pack the Car and Beat the Kids” rose to the top—because honestly, that would be on brand. But sixty years of love deserves a little more reverence.

So instead, here’s a tribute to the chaos, the steadiness, the laughter, and the legacy of two people who somehow raised all of us without entirely losing their minds.

Mostly.

They’ve been together for sixty years—five years of young love, scribbled poems, and dreaming out loud… followed by fifty-five years of marriage. A lifetime, really.

They met at Clarion University—young, curious, and entirely unaware of the life they’d build together. My mum thought he was the richest man she’d ever met. Why? Because he’d eaten in a restaurant once and owned a sport coat. And in her world, that was pure glamour.

My dad? He was a hopeless romantic from the very beginning. He wrote poems to her in the margins of his class notes, passed them in secret, folded like treasure—and then tucked them away to be found on her 75th birthday. He loved her then the way he still does now—with gentle consistency and a wink of mischief.

They came from different worlds. Sandy was a good girl—hard-working, well-behaved, always chasing good grades and never stepping out of line. Jack was a loner—quiet but stubborn, following no one’s rules but his own. She grew up in a big, loud, messy family. He came from a stricter, harsher household where love wasn’t spoken often. Each of them was searching for something—something steadier, something new. She found a quiet rebel with a crooked smile and a kind heart. He found a woman and a family he could love—one that loved him back.

They were both education majors. My mum, Sandy, was born to teach—patient, fierce, and full of heart. My dad, Jack, not so much. He worked odd jobs, took what came, and held our family together on a patchwork of effort and determination until he started his own company. And then he was gone a lot—traveling for work, chasing something steadier for us.

Our childhood vacations weren’t picture-perfect. They were tacked onto his business trips to exotic destinations like Corpus Christi and St. Louis. Someone was always picking their nose, climbing over a railing, not touching someone else, or refusing to wear pants—and that was just in the photos. We cried to be carried, got speeding tickets in St. Louis, threw up at every rest stop, accidentally set the dunes on fire, and broke down more times than I can remember. Once, we even roasted hermit crabs on the car floor driving home from Corpus Christi.

We were the Griswolds on vacation before that shit was even cool.

We slept on cots in crowded bedrooms, melting in the wet Florida heat. We camped in a pop-up that had to be carefully balanced at night or it would tip. We laughed when my brother got stuck with the “table” as his bed in that old camper. And we fought over the way-back seat like it was prime real estate. We learned the phrase “beat and pack,” and we knew exactly what it meant.

But no matter where we were, the Easter Bunny always found us, and Santa always knew to leave our presents—even when we weren’t home.
And somehow, that’s how the meaning of home was built.

Home wasn’t just a place.
It was an idea.
It was a world.
It was something we could leave and still belong to.

The world was big, and they wanted us to see it—but we always came back.
We could always come back.

They planted seeds that rooted.
And they held.
They’re holding still.

We were poor by most standards. Hand-me-downs from the church, from neighbors. But we didn’t really notice. Or maybe we just didn’t care. We had each other—and that was everything.

As we grew, the business took root. Mum went back to the classroom (and became my fourth-grade teacher, which deserves its own award). We started taking vacations to the beach—a real vacation, the kind you take on purpose. We packed boogie boards (the cheap, white Styrofoam kind) into the Suburban and stopped twenty times to rearrange them because the squeaking was making Jack insane. We still broke down at toll booths. We still threw up at rest areas. We still fought over the back seat.

We continued to grow. And as we became teenagers—and awful—they did their best to temper our behavior, love us unconditionally, and set boundaries we were absolutely sure to ignore. They told us, “One day, you’ll thank me,” and quietly told themselves, “One day, they’ll thank us.”

They were right. Eventually.

They taught us how to drive. How to play ball. How to be kind to those around us who were different or had less. They attended every game. Every practice. And they bravely said goodbye as, one by one, we graduated and left home.

And when their season of raising kids began to quiet, they didn’t slow down—they just shifted gears.

They traveled back and forth between our schools to watch us play, pick us up, celebrate our birthdays. Sometimes they even showed up when we didn’t.

They never missed a thing. Not one graduation. Not a birthday. Not a communion. Even for the kids that weren’t technically “theirs.” They just showed up. Always. Even if it meant driving all night between events.

They still do.

Now, at 77 and 78, with the kids grown, moved out, married, and raising children of their own, they’re road warriors—taking long, meandering road trips just because. They turn opportunity into adventure and “seek the great perhaps” better than anyone I’ve ever met. They travel the world with too much luggage, curiosity, open minds, and open hearts. They don’t worry too much—or too little—and sometimes that cavalier, caution-to-the-wind attitude drives me crazy.

They go to Steelers games and wave their terrible towels like they’re still in their twenties. They cheer at hockey games. They play bar trivia like it’s life or death. They finish jigsaw puzzles faster than I can open the box.

It’s been sixty years of laughter, grit, faith, and fierce loyalty. Sixty years of a love that was never flashy, never loud, but always steady. Always real. Over time, they developed their own language—inside jokes, whispered prayers, and unspoken understandings.

You can read a lifetime in one look.

And yeah, sometimes I call them the Bickersons. Sometimes I say, “We put the fun in dysfunctional.” Sometimes I joke with people, “I love my family—especially my dad—but he’s more like a hostage.”

But the truth is, what they have—and what they’ve built and endured—is rare. It’s precious.
It’s pretty f’n amazing…

They gave the world me (you’re welcome), and my siblings (pretty cool, I guess). And when that work was done, they set out to fill every corner of that world with the kind of love that stretches—onward and always.

Together, they built a life layered with meaning—raising children who question everything, who love deeply, who argue passionately, and who believe in possibility, because they were raised by two people who did.

Now, they spend most days doting on their grandchildren—who are growing up inside the story they started, who will one day inherit it, and who will, one day, write their own.

They are the kind of love that endures.
The kind that makes room for change.
The kind that still holds hands when no one’s looking.

Happy 55th Anniversary, Mum and Dad.
Your story reminds me to hope.
To laugh often and forgive quickly.
To wander and to want.
And to always say yes to the trip—even if it’s to St. Louis.

How to Steal a Cat (and heal a broken heart)

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ 1 Comment

I didn’t set out to steal a cat. Or write a story about it.
I set out to survive the kind of grief that guts you from the inside. The kind that makes you keep seeing shadows that aren’t there and crying in grocery store aisles. In the end I guess that kind of story kind sort of writes itself and then waits for you to recognize it (even if it takes six years) and sit down and get on with it.

This isn’t really a story about theft.
It’s about loss. And love. And the messy, irrational things we do to feel whole again.
It’s about Stuart, the cat who broke my heart by being the best thing in it.
And Stella, the tiny, cross-eyed stowaway who climbed into the hollow he left behind.

Most people think he was named Stu because it was short for stupid. And who knows, maybe at first it was. But for as long as I can remember, across those too-short fifteen years, it was short for Stuart James, named after James Stuart II, my favorite of all the British monarchs (of course I have a favorite monarch).

He was my best friend in more ways than I can explain.

He was weird-looking, lanky, scraggly, even at his healthiest.

He walked on his tiptoes, had a wonky eye, and scars on his nose, lip, and head.

Reminders of a life on the streets, and brushes with death that probably claimed a few of his nine lives before I claimed him as my own.

He was almost all white, except for an orange-ringed tail and a few scattered orange patches across his back and head.

And he was loyal.

He knew all my stories. I won’t pretend he didn’t judge me…he was a cat, after all, and judging is innate to his kind, regardless of his judgy nature, he loved me unconditionally. And he never told a soul the deepest, darkest secrets I whispered to him at night.

He was quirky in the way only soulmates are. He did this thing I’ve never seen another cat do. He would jump straight from the ground into my arms. Not in the slow, climbing way kittens do on Instagram reels. No. He’d pace in front of me, mewing, while I patted my chest and asked, “Wanna come up?” He’d pace some more, maybe complain a little louder, and then…leap. A full five-foot arc, right into my open arms.

I thought it was a magic trick. Sure, dogs do it. Kids do it. (even educated bees do it?) But cats? Cats don’t perform. They do what they want, when they want. For Stu, that leap was the ultimate act of trust, me, trusting he wouldn’t claw the shit out of my chest, and him, trusting I’d catch him every time.

He was also, hands down, one of the most expensive things I’ve ever owned, aside from my house and current car. I’m pretty sure his vet bills totaled more than my first car. There were at least three emergency vet visits: urinary blockages, a chewed lily leaf (how that didn’t kill him, I’ll never know), and various death-defying stunts. But every time, the vet would say, “He can make it if we treat him.” And how do you say no to that?

As much as I loved him, I’ll admit it. I get mad about it sometimes. Pets are heartbreak by design. I can’t remember which comedian said it, but the bit went something like: “Look, kids…a puppy! In fifteen years it’s going to break your heart and crush your soul.”

We don’t deserve pets.
And they don’t stay long enough.
As fate would have it, they stay just long enough to become a permanent part of your soul.
And then they die.
And you get a little box of ashes to keep in your china cabinet.
(At least that’s where I keep mine)
Maybe you get a ceramic paw print too—someone smashes their dead paw into clay before they set them on fire.
It’s absurd.
It’s tender.
It’s cruel.

I watched him grow old. In the last few months, I could see him fading. Slow down. He stopped jumping into my arms. He didn’t even pace for it anymore. He just watched me, his body still trying to obey the instincts that had always made him bold, but the strength wasn’t there. I started letting him come outside with me. He never wandered, just found a sunny patch of grass and curled into it like he was part of the earth itself. He moved slower. Slept longer. Ate less. No matter his age, he still followed me to bed. Our bed is high, raised up on a platform that takes a small leap even for a healthy cat. But somehow, every night, he made it. He’d settle between our pillows, tuck himself close, and stay there all night. In the morning, he’d stretch his paws out, touch my nose, and meet my eyes with that same quiet knowing he always had.

That was my life for fifteen years.

I don’t know how I knew, but I knew.
Some deep feeling inside me.
Maybe it was just because he looked tired.

His body was thin, almost brittle. His breathing was shallow, less… like a clock winding down. Each tick growing further apart. A countdown you can hear and feel. One you try to ignore.

His fur wasn’t matted, but it was off. Dry, unkempt. He had lost his shine.
And his eyes, they were still soulful, still saw into me, but there was something else in them now.
A pleading. A knowing.

And as I looked into his eyes, I saw it.

And I knew.

This was our last night.

He curled into the crook of my arm, like always. I cued up our playlist, The Droge & Summers Blend, a song called Two of the Lucky Ones, was on first. It was one of his favorites.

I pulled him closer to me and I started to cry.

As Peter Droge sang by the light of a setting sun I whispered “You can go now baby. Mama will be ok if you need to go. I’ll be ok, I’ll be ok, I’ll be ok…”

The next morning, we woke to find he had wet the bed between our pillows. He didn’t try to hide it. Didn’t move from it. He didn’t look ashamed, he just looked… finished. He had listened. And I had promised. 

So I called our vet. I made the appointment.

When the time came, I held him through both injections.
I held him after the vet whispered, “He’s gone.”
I kept holding him while my body shook and the tears fell in heavy, soaking drops.

T stood beside me, close but not touching.
He was sobbing too.
But I think he knew, if he touched me, I would collapse.
I was tethered to this limp, lifeless body, and I wasn’t ready to let go.

T whispered, “He loved you so much.”

I cried so hard the vet tech cried too.
Even Dr. Plott cried.
I didn’t stop crying for days.

(I’m crying now as I write…and rewrite this.
I don’t cry less with each version.
I’ve come to accept this will always hurt.)

Time doesn’t heal all wounds.
That’s bullshit.
That’s what people say when they don’t know what else to say.
When you’re sobbing over a cat and your grief makes them uncomfortable.

I loved that fucking cat. And when he left, it felt like someone reached inside me and took the part I hadn’t realized was holding everything else together. My world cracked wide open. I couldn’t speak his name without breaking. I couldn’t sit in the places he used to sleep. I couldn’t bear the silence.

And then… came a text.

Two days after I held Stuart for the last time, I was still crying in waves, grief arriving in strange, sharp bursts, like my body kept remembering what my heart already knew.

The text was from a friend. No context. Just a photo of a tiny, somewhat cross-eyed Siamese kitten with huge, ridiculous blue eyes and ears too big for her head. Below it, a message:

“I know you just lost Stu… but do you want a kitten?”

I stared at the picture for a long time. I felt guilty just looking at it. Like even entertaining the thought was some kind of betrayal. I hadn’t vacuumed up his fur yet. I hadn’t showered, but I had at least washed the bedding. His dish was still in its place.

But the ache inside me was unbearable. My arms felt too empty.

So I replied: “No”.

But, I couldn’t get that picture out of my mind. That tiny kitten looking up at the camera, eyes slightly crossed, ears like satellite dishes, fur too thin to be impressive but thick enough to whisper potential. She wasn’t cute in the obvious way. She was awkward and wild-eyed. Desperate, maybe. But also… cavalier.

Like she was saying: Come get me if you want. If not? I’ll figure it out.

I stared at it again that night. And again the next morning.

I showed T the picture and said, “Can you believe Heather? We don’t want a kitten right now…”

I didn’t respond for three days.

I kept telling myself no.
No, because I wasn’t ready.
No, because she wasn’t him.
No, because I hadn’t even vacuumed. His dish was still there.
His favorite food, Mixed Grill, was still sitting on the counter.
And I still cried every time I walked into the bedroom and settled in without him.

And because I was still seeing him in the periphery, in the margins. Like a comment from an editor I wasn’t ready to read. This heavy reminder of unfinished business. Something that might one day become just a footnote, but for now it lingered and it demanded attention.

The white fake lilies Morgan bought me as a joke would catch the corner of my eye, and for a split second, that flash of white… it was him.

But the picture haunted me (as if I wasn’t haunted enough)—and gave me hope.
I’d open it and stare. Close it. Open it again.
That little punk cat wouldn’t blink.

Finally, I broke.

“Where is she?” I texted.

Heather replied immediately, like she’d been waiting for it.

“At my mom’s camp in the mountains. She just wandered up and she’s worried the stray dogs are going to kill her.”

She sent another picture. Cuter than the last.

Oh…
Well…
Shit.

Now it wasn’t just a maybe-kitten. It was a maybe-murdered kitten.
A potentially soon-to-be tragic-eyed ghost I would also carry around in my chest cavity for the next decade if I didn’t at least try.

The moral math didn’t make sense. I was grieving. I was still crying in the grocery store. I hadn’t cooked, hadn’t slept, hadn’t gone a full day without whispering “I miss you” to a patch of carpet.

But this wasn’t about being ready. It was about not being able to live with myself if I didn’t do something.

I went back to T with the new picture.

He looked at it, nodded slowly. “Yeah… it’s a kitten. And it’s cute.”

I stared at him. “Do we want a kitten?”

He didn’t hesitate. “It’s up to you, babe. I know how bad you’re still hurting.”

I rationalized. “I think Rooney’s lonely. She misses Stu… she needs a friend.”

T raised an eyebrow. “Rooney is fine.”

I wasn’t deterred. “I mean… she seems really sad, doesn’t she? Doesn’t she seem lonely? That’s depression, right?”

He didn’t answer.

So I tried again. “Do you want a kitten?”

He just repeated, soft and steady: “It’s up to you.”

Which, of course, meant: I will support whatever your broken, irrational heart decides to do—even if it means a day trip to the mountains to rescue a stray kitten that probably doesn’t need rescuing. 

We thought she was a stray. Unwanted, unclaimed, a little ghost scratching out an existence around a camp in the mountains of North Carolina. Heather’s mom had found her, said the wild dogs were circling– the kitten wouldn’t last much longer. That was all we knew. That was all I needed to know.

I texted Heather, “Fine. Tell Beth we’ll take her.”

As luck would have it, Beth and Pampa were already heading to South Carolina the next day. She said she could meet us on the way down from the mountains. We picked a Chick-Fil-A in Gastonia. Neutral territory, almost halfway for both of us. Public enough to not feel like a shady animal deal, but not so busy that anyone would ask questions.

So we packed the cat carrier. Gassed up the car. Started driving.

It felt a little ridiculous, even in the moment. Like we were on some noble quest to rescue a lost soul while trying to heal mine. But I didn’t care. I needed something to pour my grief into. I needed something I could save.

T drove. It was quiet. I stared out the window, thinking about how recently I’d made this same kind of drive, but in reverse. From the vet’s office. Without Stuart. With every mile, I doubted myself. I wasn’t ready. But I was already going.

Beth met us in the parking lot, kitten in hand. She was tiny, smaller than I expected. All ears and eyes and fragile limbs, folded into Beth’s arms like a secret.

“I’m so glad you’re taking her,” she said.

I took the kitten carefully, holding her close like she might vanish if I didn’t keep her pressed to me. We made the usual small talk, said thanks, and loaded her into the carrier. I climbed into the back seat beside her. Left the carrier door open. Kept my hand inside.

On the ride home, T kept glancing back at us in the rearview mirror.

“I’ve thought of a name,” he said.

I was sort of shocked. It had taken us weeks to name Rooney. T had been calling her Dan the Adventure Cat when she was still feral in our backyard. Because, as he told me, “all outdoor stray cats are male”. I didn’t get the logic, but I didn’t deny him the fantasy. And when we realized Dan was, in fact, a she, we went through a whole series of terrible almost-names: Chicken. Danielle. Kitten Butt.

Nothing stuck.

Then one day I made the leap—from Dan to Dan Rooney. The Steelers. Pittsburgh.
I remember yelling it down the hall from the toilet:

“ROONEY! We should call her Rooney!”

And that was that. Dan the Adventure Cat, became and is still known to this day as: Dan “the Adventure Cat” Rooney.

So for T to have a name within ten minutes of picking up a kitten we were not prepared for or even sure we wanted…that was impressive.

“Stella Blue,” he said. “You know, because she has blue eyes.”

T’s a Grateful Dead fan. It made sense.

And just like that, she had a name.

Stella. Our new baby.

She didn’t hiss. Didn’t scratch. Just stared. Still wide-eyed. Still that strange blend of desperate and defiant. Like she was thinking, You got me? Fine. Just don’t fuck it up.

When we got home, I decided she needed a bath. She’d been living under a porch, allegedly. Surely she had fleas, mites, worms—something.

I started to run the water and reached to lift her, but then I noticed… she wasn’t dirty. Her coat was clean. Her ears were clear. She didn’t smell like garbage or wet leaves. She didn’t even flinch when I touched her feet.

And then I saw it.

A faint line around her neck.

A collar line.

“T,” I called. “Come here. Look at this.”

He stood beside me, and I pointed. That perfect little imprint. The one you only get from something worn too long to forget.

“This cat was wearing a collar.”

And right then it hit me. It hit us.

I said, “Oh my God.”
T said, “Beth stole this cat.”
We both said,  “And we helped her.”

I made T text Heather.

“Ask her where the cat came from. Don’t let her skip the details. We know the truth”

That’s when we got the whole story.

Apparently, the kitten had wandered up to Beth’s camper and started hanging out under the porch. She’d been wearing a flea collar, one of those cheap, one-size-fits-all kinds. But it was too tight. And whoever had put it on her hadn’t bothered to cut off the excess length, so she was just dragging around six inches of loose collar behind her like a tail extension.

Beth said she was afraid it would get snagged on something and choke her.

So she cut it off.

Which is when, I suppose, she decided the kitten was now hers.
Either to keep, or to give away.

And since she opted for Doorway Number Two…

By extension…ours.

That first week, we kept Stella quarantined in our bedroom.
Just to be safe.
We didn’t want her passing anything to Rooney. We had a vet appointment scheduled, but they couldn’t see us until the following Monday.

It felt responsible, like we were pretending to be people who knew what the hell they were doing.
We’d had cats before…
Just not stolen ones.

So it also felt dangerous.
Because what if she was microchipped?
What if someone had reported her missing?
Or worse…
stolen?

What if by taking her to the vet, we were writing our own ticket to jail?

We lived mostly normal lives during this time, but occasionally one of us would muse outloud, “do they arrest people for stealing cats?”, “since we didn’t cross state lines, this isn’t a federal crime right?”, “what if her owner wants her back?”

I think that’s what scared me more than anything. Not the jail, because surely they’d throw Beth in jail, not us, I mean we were just recipients of stolen goods, not the stealers, so what, probation? Community service? I could live with that. What I couldn’t live with though was giving her back. It would be a devastating loss at this point added to an already tattered and barely surviving soul.

Because in truth, the past week had been a mix of healing vibes and guilt filled grief. Each night I went to sleep in the master and T in the guest room. That way neither Stella or Rooney were alone. I spent the first week falling asleep with my hand in Stu’s spot and Stella curled up on my chest, tucked under my chin. I didn’t sleep much. I’m a side sleeper and she was too damn cute to move. It was like she knew what was broken inside of me and she laid there, on my heart, not for her comfort, but for mine. 

When the vet finally saw her, it was Dr. Plott again, he confirmed what we’d already suspected: Stella was in perfect health.
No fleas. No mites. Some worms.
Clear eyes. Good weight.
Friendly enough, considering.

She also wasn’t microchipped (she is now).

Thank God for small favors.
At least there was no proof of our crime.

I might have panicked for a moment when Dr. Plott asked, “where did you get her? You don’t see many Siamese strays.” But I managed to stammer out some “oh you know, a friend found her wandering about” response.

I brought her home, relieved, triumphant, and yes, still guilty and broken. 

Yet, every night, I would crawl into bed with this stranger, this new kitten, and that was essential.

Not because I knew her.
Not because she’d earned it.
But because something had to fill the hollow.
Because the silence was too loud.
Because she curled into the space where Stuart used to sleep and didn’t flinch when I cried.

She was soft, and small, and steady.
And even if she wasn’t him, she was here.
And that was something.

This became my routine for about nine months. We were still in the pandemic and I was still working from home. She slept with me at night, sat on my shoulder while I worked or chewed on my papers. She snuggled up with me on the couch when she wasn’t sitting on Rooney or tormenting her as we made and ate dinner and let the day wind down.

I started to heal. I cried less and less. Sometimes I actually put on Stu’s Jams or scrolled through my pictures because I was afraid I was losing him, I was afraid I was letting go, and despite what grace she had given me, I wasn’t ready for her to take his place. 

In the end, Stella made that decision for me. I went back to work and T started working from home. She went from snuggling with me to lounging on him during our evenings, and sleeping exclusively with him. She pulled away first. It was like she knew she had done her job, her services were rendered, and she didn’t owe me anything else. Now she was free to make her own decisions and play by her own rules. To this day she loves him more. I’m ok with that, even though I complain about it often and openly. She sasses me when I pick her up, I swear her meow sounds like “noooooo”. But every so often, she still comes into the bedroom, crawls up on my chest and lays on the heart she once helped me heal. 

A Feral Kind of Grace

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

A Feral Kind of Grace
 An Introduction

I was a barefoot child with skinned knees and a bike. A dreamer. I spent my days wandering wooded backyards and whispering creeks, convinced the trees could talk if I just listened hard enough. I grew up in a house where silence was both sacred and suspicious, where love was present but not always soft. I learned early how to be useful. How to read a room. How to disappear—and still be watching. I longed to ride horses on the sand and hear the stories the stars were waiting to tell.
I learned to look.
I learned to listen.
I learned to fight.

In my teens, I wanted to be everything at once—pretty, smart, daring, good.
I failed at most of it. Spectacularly and often.
I fell in love too fast, burned too hot, gave too much, and had my heart broken twice into so many pieces I never thought I’d be whole again.

I wrote poems in the margins of my math homework and still day dreamed about horses and far away places. A testament to my math ability now. I carried secrets in my soul that I would whisper to the stars at night as an offering. I wore armor made of sarcasm and kindness, hoping no one would see how much I wanted to be seen and accepted.
I played sports, earned mostly As, and frustrated my teachers with my questions and inability to sit still. I stopped listening. I stopped looking. But I didn’t stop fighting.

I went to college at 17—young, free, and determined to be someone else. I rewrote my name and my story numerous times in the span of 5 years. Each fractured being still clinging somewhere inside me today. I had moments of great success… and moments we still don’t talk about when the family gets together. I don’t live with my regrets, but I have them. I came out mostly unscathed and mostly whole, and wholly scared of life in the real world.

Early adulthood didn’t make anything clearer or easier—it just raised the stakes.
I was more momentum than foresight. I got engaged, broke that off. I married too soon and I stayed too long. I made lifelong friends, and lost touch with the brokenness inside me. I gathered names and scars and learned how to leave.
I learned I was strong enough to be alone.
I went back to school, accumulated degrees and the debt that came with them.
But I also learned how to stay.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I found my person.
Not the one I expected—but the one who made space for every version of me I’d been carrying.
The one who didn’t flinch when I unfolded. He wasn’t the person I wrote, he was the person I re-read. And I started listening again. I started seeing instead of just looking. I didn’t stop fighting.
But I did learn to let go.
I’ve learned to apologize. To move forward.
To move on.

And now?
At 47, I’ve made my home somewhere between squirrel whisperer, crazy cat lady, reluctant domestic goddess, and freelance adventurer.
I try to be a good neighbor—I’ll bring in your mail, water your plants, or loan you a cup of sugar.
But I also leave snacks out for the raccoons and possums. T calls it “yard garbage”. I refuse to rake leaves—for the bees, sure. But also because raking feels like erasing. And my weekends are not meant for labor. I have a menagerie in my yard and my own squirrel army. They have names. They know me, and I know them. One year, I had to apologize for the corn that started growing in random places around the neighborhood. I’ve since switched to peanuts.
They haven’t sprouted—but not for lack of enthusiastic burial.

I like things a little wild.
I thrive in the casual chaos I’ve perfected.
My garden is unkempt and honest but always full of mint.
My house is full of books, mismatched mugs, lonely socks, and stories I haven’t told yet.
I pick up a rock from every place I visit—and I can name them all if you ask.
I’m stitched together with equal parts wit, mayhem, grief, and grace.
I’ve softened with time.
But I still bite when cornered.

I write because I have to. There’s something ancient and restless in me that insists on being translated and heard.
I edit because I want to. Because I believe words can be shaped like prayers or knives—depending on what’s needed.
I never believe the work is done.

My writing lives at the intersection of memory and invention.
It is rooted in truth—even when the story is fiction.
Especially then.

I have an alter ego named Echo.
She reminds me to write when I forget.
She holds up a mirror when I’m trying to disappear.
Most days, she just reminds me to feed the squirrels.

This is where the stories begin.

What I’ve Learned About Hurt, Healing, and Becoming an Ally

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

This weekend, I curled in the 2nd annual Queen City Color Games at the Charlotte Curling Club—our Pride Bonspiel. Teams came from all over—California, New Jersey, Maryland, Georgia, Nebraska, South Dakota, and, of course, North Carolina. It’s a joyful, love-filled celebration of LGBTQIA+ curlers and allies. And while it’s a “funspiel,” the kind with funky rules and wild costumes, it’s also something much deeper: it’s a space where being fully yourself isn’t just tolerated—it’s expected. It’s embraced. When it ended, I didn’t just feel grateful. I felt a quiet ache—because I realized how rare and sacred that kind of space is. A space where no one has to shrink. Where no one has to explain who they are. Where belonging isn’t earned—it’s assumed and it is respected.

And that got me thinking…

So here’s my story. Bear with me. I ramble. I meander. I wander about before I get to the point, and I talk too much—but I promise I’ll get there.

When I was a kid, I was an athlete. I started swimming competitively when I was four, and by ten, I was practicing twice a day and lifting weights. I was good—probably better than good. I had Quad-A times in backstroke and breaststroke before I hit double digits. I still might hold a record at my old summer pool in backstroke. In college, I realized my 15-16 breaststroke time beat the record on the wall at Clarion’s pool, whatever, I guess maybe I should have been a swimmer. But that’s not the point.

I picked up softball around ten, then volleyball. Again—good. Competitive. Driven. If you know me, you know: I like to win. I worked hard, I played harder, and I loved every second of it. I was strong. Fast. Lean. The kind of kid who could throw a football better than most of the boys and outrun just about anyone in gym class.

And that’s when things started to shift.

Junior high hit—and suddenly, being athletic wasn’t cool anymore. Not for girls. Not in the early ’90s. Today we’re starting to celebrate female athletes, but trust me—we didn’t back then.

My nickname became “Leaman”—a jab at my strength and build. My short haircut didn’t help. Curling my bangs and teasing them out over a bowl cut couldn’t mask it. But I tried. I invested in that purple hairspray with the kangaroo on the can, and I looked mostly ridiculous for most of junior high and high school.

But dammit, I wanted to fit in.

I can still smell that horrid grapeness when I think about seventh grade.
And it didn’t help—not really. No amount of hairspray or makeup could cover who I was.

I was called a boy. A lesbian. A dike.
I didn’t even fully understand those words at the time—but I knew they were meant to cut.
To other me.

So I guess I did what a lot of kids do—I tried to shrink myself. I tried to fade into the background and be less… me and more… them.

I stopped working so hard. Hell, I even got kicked off my swim team for something stupid—a cute boy I had a crush on told me to drop a weight down the stairs, and I did. I’ll never forget my coach’s last words: “You wanted to quit, Leanne. So just quit.” I remember walking out to my mum’s car after practice, knowing it was over. Knowing they had already paid through the month—and that would be an issue. But I didn’t care. I was over it.

I wanted to be liked. I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to blend in, not stand out. And somewhere along the way, I started to resent the very thing I used to love most about myself.

That’s not a pity story. I’m not sharing it for sympathy. I’m sharing it because—while that nickname stung, while that teasing changed some things for me—I could walk away from it. I could brush off the labels because they weren’t true for me. I wasn’t gay. I wasn’t different, not in the way they meant. The insults were misfires. And eventually, I grew out of them.

But here’s the thing.

What if I wasn’t straight?

What if I was that kid—that teammate, that friend—who those labels stuck to because they weren’t insults… they were my identity? An identity I had to hide.  An identity I couldn’t laugh off or join the teasing from the sidelines. An identity that made me feel othered in spaces that were supposed to be safe.

What if I couldn’t brush it off?

What if, at 13 or 14, those words didn’t just sting—they burrowed in and told me I didn’t belong?

What if they made me question my own worth?

As an adult, I’ve been lucky. I’ve built a life I’m proud of—a career I love, a partner who grounds me, and a sense of self that took decades to grow into. But maybe more than anything, I’ve built friendships that last. The kind that don’t flinch when life gets hard. The ones you carry with you to the grave and beyond.

Y’all, I have friends I’d take a bullet for. Friends who’d help me bury a body (kidding… mostly).

They’re the people who make my world beautiful.

Who give my life meaning.

They’re the people who see all of me—and choose me anyway. 

They remind me, every single day, that there is still light and love in this world.

And they are worth fighting for.

And if you find yourself judging—whether it’s this post, this event, or the LGBTQIA+ community as a whole—I’d invite you to pause.

Ask yourself what that judgment is rooted in.

Because if it comes from fear, or tradition, or something you were taught long ago—I get it. That’s real. We’re all raised to believe in something. Our lives are built on the foundations laid by our parents, our churches, and the geopolitical landscape we grew up in. And that’s hard to shake.

But so was my fear of spiders.
And the deep end of the pool after I saw Jaws.

Sometimes our fears aren’t real.
Sometimes they’re invitations—to question the world around us, to expand our beliefs, to build systems that are more compassionate and more robust.
Sometimes fear is just a construct—rooted in old stories and ancient hurts we were never meant to carry forever.

Any good therapist will tell you: fear binds you. It holds you back.
But with enough practice, it can be overcome.

And fear—real or imagined—is not a reason to deny someone else dignity, safety, or love.

You don’t have to understand someone’s identity to honor their humanity.

So here’s what I want to say and am finally getting around to…

Some of my friends are straight. Some are gay. Some are trans. Some are nonbinary. Some are Black, Brown, White, Neurodiverse, or Disabled. And here’s the truth: I love my people fiercely. I love them not in spite of who they are, but because of it. And I hope—deep in my bones—that I’ve been the kind of friend they can count on. The kind that shows up, not just in comfort, but in courage.

And lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it really means to be an ally. Not just a safe person. Not just someone who “accepts” others. But someone who actively refuses to let hate or exclusion go unchecked.

Because when I think about that 13-year-old version of me—hurt by a nickname but able to walk away from it—I realize what a privilege that was. I wasn’t targeted for who I was. I was targeted for what people assumed.

And yes, that hurt. But it wasn’t soul-deep. It didn’t threaten my safety, my future, or my place in the world. It may have changed me—but honestly, I can’t even say for sure.

What I can say is that it stayed with me. It still does.

It shows up in the quiet calculations. The moments where I weigh what I can say and what I can’t. Where I toe the line to stay safe. Where I hold back because of fear, because of image, because of self-preservation.

And I get it. I get why people stay quiet. I’ve done it too.

But I also know this:
I can’t be an ally.
I can’t be a friend.
I can’t stand up and fight if I’m still hiding behind that fear.

So here it is. So here’s what I want to say.

For so many kids, that fear, that “otherness”, that lack of belonging – it exists and persists and resonates. Every day. All the time. In every moment.

And that’s why spaces like our Pride Bonspiel matter. That’s why allyship matters. Not just in June. Not just at one event. But in the way we live, love, parent, teach, coach, vote, speak, and show up.

If you’ve never had to question whether you belonged in a locker room, on a team, at a family dinner, or in your own church—you’re already playing with privilege. That doesn’t make you a bad person. But it does mean you have a responsibility.

Because allyship isn’t passive. It’s not a rainbow sticker or a hashtag or a one-time event. It’s action. It’s speaking up when it would be easier to stay quiet. It’s making space when you’ve always had it. It’s listening—really listening—when someone tells you what it’s like to be “othered.”

It’s about creating more spaces like this bonspiel. Spaces where love shows up in funky costumes and everyone belongs just as they are.

I’m still learning. Still listening. Still trying to do better.
But I know this much:

You are safe here.
You are loved here.
You belong here.

And if I’ve missed the mark—if I’ve made this more about me than I meant to—please tell me. I want to do better. I want to be better. That’s what allyship means to me.

Selah.

The Ten Names I Gave the Sky

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

This season, like so many others, Jackie and Shadow reminded us what it means to hope fiercely, love deeply, and fight for survival—no matter the storm. If you don’t know who Jackie and Shadow are, you are missing out. They are an eagle couple (eagles mate for life) that life in Big Bear Valley in California and they have a livecam you can watch 24/7. The past few years have been pretty heartbreaking; nest being blown away, chicks dying. But I come back year after year, especially since I lost the Haye’s Eagles a few years ago. But this year has been full of excitement, three eggs, three hatchings, and so many storms…

And maybe the hardest part of this season was not knowing. The watching. The waiting. The heartbreak.

When one of the chicks vanished during the storm, 90,000 viewers feared the worst. I had named the youngest one Rocky, because he fought. Because he was small and scrappy and never stopped trying. He was the underdog. And we all know how much I love an underdog.

I was sure it was him that had perished.

But nature is unpredictable—and sometimes, so is hope.

In a twist none of us expected, it now seems Rocky may have survived, and it was the elder sibling we lost instead. Friends of Big Bear Valley and Big Bear Eagle Nest Cam named them Misty, in honor of a loved friend they also lost too soon.

That bittersweet shift made the naming even more sacred.

Every name I submitted carries a piece of that journey: of loss, of fight, of mystery, of survival… of HOPE.

These are the names I submitted for consideration:

🌿 Aspen – For the trees that tremble but don’t fall. Resilient. Rooted.

💨 Zephyr – A soft wind that carries you farther than you ever imagined.

🌊 Marin – Of the lake, of the calm, of the quiet strength below the surface.

🕊️ Solace – For the comfort we seek in each other and in the wild.

🌟 Nova – A burst of light from darkness. A beginning born from an end.

📖 Scout – Curious, brave, ready to meet the world with wide eyes.

🎶 Lyric – A song in the trees, in the wings, in the hush between heartbeats.

🌫️ Mistral – A wind that comes down from the mountains, strong and rare.

🌌 Cael – Latin for sky or heaven. Light and boundless.

🔁 Echo – Because some things never truly leave us—they just return in a different form.

They didn’t ask for meanings. But I gave them anyway.

Because to name something is to love it.

And I love this nest and this experience more than I ever thought I could.

For a small donation you too can submit names. The 3rd, 4th, and 5th graders of Big Bear Valley will vote on the names for this year’s chicks. Even if you don’t want to submit names, you can always donate to such a great cause.

And if you’re wondering why I spent so much time and effort on something seemingly so small, it’s because in a world filled with so much hate, so much fear and discord, and so much uncertainty, these eagles and this experience are both a welcome reprieve—and a reminder of the good things in this world.

The things worth fighting for and caring about.

And the love we are all capable of.

Selah.

In the End, It’s Up to Us

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

This isn’t a political post. It might seem like one. But that depends on the eyes and the lens with which you choose to read it. This is a post about humanity. About citizenship. About our rights and responsibilities in this great nation. This is a post from one human to another, hoping to appeal to all of us, regardless of where we fall on the political spectrum. Regardless of who we did or did not vote for. Regardless of our biases, our fears, our worries, or our convictions.

This is a post that asks you, as a person, to stop, reflect, and consider what comes next. Because what comes next is what will define us—and you—as individuals and as a nation. This election didn’t determine the fate of our country. We determine that. We have that power. That is what democracy and a Constitutional Republic are founded upon. It is up to us to decide what comes next and how we choose to behave in the coming months, years, decades.

Do not forget: this country was founded on the premise that the government works for us. We’ve had a tumultuous few years, and we are coming off an election that was pivotal, poignant, and a turning point. But regardless of what you won or lost, who you voted for or didn’t, the work doesn’t end on election day. The work is just beginning.

You want a better America? We all do, even if we don’t agree on what that looks like. But divisive vitriol and hatred won’t get us there. Now, more than ever, we need to put derision and hatred aside and come together. When you make a decision, ask yourself: Am I only thinking of myself, or am I considering my neighbor, my friend, my family, my butcher… in other words, am I thinking of the greater good?

Democracy and our government were based on the greater good, on limited government and the protection of minority rights. Our country was born from the desire for freedom from persecution and a lack of voice. It was founded on the belief that all men (and women) are created equal, with inalienable rights. We were once a proud nation of Enlightenment philosophy and high expectations. We held people accountable and loved our neighbors.

So, before you act, before you do anything else, take a moment. Reflect. Imagine the country you want to live in and be proud of. Imagine your neighbor, your friend, or the stranger you pass on the street. What makes a nation great? What makes us strong? Seriously consider how you can have an impact and choose to work for good. Make decisions out of hope and promise, not fear and despair. This nation isn’t defined by one person. Each of you has a place and a voice. Use it wisely.

We are all on this ride together, divided or not, and the destination is in our hands. Choose love over hate, compassion and empathy over anger and belittlement, action over passive aggression. Be a willing, noble participant in democracy. Don’t give up. Don’t walk away. Don’t lower your gaze.

Do not be afraid of what you don’t understand. Fear only leads to hate and breeds contempt. If something frightens you, face it—ask questions, seek understanding, learn. It is not for us to be judge, jury, and executioner. There are other worlds than this, and greater powers at work. Our role is to make good on the time we are given, to abide by the principles that guide us: love, honor, and value. The rest will sort itself out, if you believe in that. And if you don’t, there’s still the golden rule we all share: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

There is no God, no higher power, and no man who can or will excuse or condone hatred. The teachings of Jesus, of other prophets and religious figures, of parents, heroes, or guides in our lives have been clear: there is no justification for violence against another. We do not condone hate. We do not condone violence. Whatever our belief system or upbringing, each of us has been taught love at some point.

We are given free will to choose our path, and eventually, we will all be judged by what is in our hearts—whether by a higher power we believe in, or by the legacies we leave behind. With this free will, each of us must decide how we will act, how we will treat others, and what kind of world we wish to create.

Ultimately, it’s not about the beliefs we hold, but the way we live them out. Choose to be a force for good. Choose to rise above fear and meet the unknown with curiosity and courage. Because in the end, our actions define not just who we are, but the world we leave behind.

One hand on the starboard rail

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

It was 1985 (or so) and I was 8 (or so) riding with my Bam to somewhere in her brown Caprice Classic. She was smoking a Capri, one of those weird long and ultra-skinny cigarettes. I liked watching her smoke. I know now I shouldn’t have. But the way her thin hands embraced it and her perfect nails complimented it. It just looked ladylike. Feminine. And beautiful. She pushed a cassette into the tape deck and looked at me and said as the tape clicked into place “don’t tell your mother I let you listen to this”. The song was Pencil Thin Mustache. I watched her sing along, tapping the cigaretted hand and nails, keeping in time on the steering wheel. The tendrils of smoke escaping as she mouthed “the Boston Blackie kind”. I didn’t know what I listening to or who Boston Blackie was. I didn’t really understand the song but then He Went to Paris came on and I realized I was sharing a special moment with my Bam. That was my first encounter with Jimmy Buffett.

It was 1992 (or so) and I was 15 (or so) and Makenzie gave me a copy of Fruitcakes. We listened to it on repeat, driving around in her white Toyota truck that she taught me to drive a stick shift in. I went to my first Buffett show with her. We wore coconut bras and made sure our fins to the left and fins to the right were on point. That same year (or so) my mum gave me a copy of the book Where is Joe Merchant as my birthday book. I read it overnight and was consumed by the adventures of Frank Bama. I fell in love with the Caribbean despite having never been there, decided I wanted to become a pilot of either a Grumman Goose or a P-51 Mustang, and knew I would one day travel the world. Buffett once said, “I sell escapism”, and I bought it, hook, line, and sinker.

It was 1997 (or so) and I was 19 (or so) and I was in college, working at a bar called the Loomis. My boss, Ed, was a huge Parrot Head, and every year he organized massive expeditions to Star Lake to see Jimmy in concert. When I say massive, I mean MASSIVE. He rented an RV, brought a generator to run the blender, and wore a grass skirt. The man was all in. We’d spend weeks leading up to it listening to Buffett, planning our trip and what drinks and other items we’d have. We lost Ed a few years ago and though I only went once, it was an experience I will never forget that keeps me connected to him and the light he shared with the world.

It was 2003 (or so) and I was 26 (or so) and I had decided to get married. It’s not something I dwell on or discuss much these days, but despite it being a moment of regret and failure, it is also a moment of unprecedented joy and familial love that I will always remember. I danced my father/daughter dance to Little Miss Magic. To this day when I hear that song I remember the feeling of being a fairy tale princess, beautiful and timeless in my father’s arms. It is that moment and that song that I remember, that helps ease the pain of my embarrassing foray into matrimony. It is a moment, regardless of the outcome, that I treasure and love and come back to every time I hear that song.

I didn’t know Jimmy Buffett; I never met him, shook his hand, spoke to him, or had dinner with him. What I loved about him was personal because of what his words and his music and his ideology meant to me at pivotal moments in my life. I feel this loss deeper than most celebrities because in moments of great happiness, he was there in some way or fashion. Losing Jimmy Buffett meant the end of an era to me. A goodbye to a man and a legend that for 45 years of living played a role in my own thoughts and desires and dreams. I have a particular harbor I hope to retire to and plan to have oysters and beer for dinner soon. I carry my tattered copy of Joe Merchant with me on long trips. And as I grow older, I appreciate a Pirate’s view on 40 more and more each day, I know that my wrinkles represent the places my smile has been, and that I just want to live happily ever after, every now and then.