In Cat Years

Gracie and Radar

On a recent Thursday night in September, I found myself watching the first home football game of the season for my alma mater, the University of Missouri. This is one of my favorite times of year—not just because of the change of seasons, but because my husband, Rich, and I met as marching band students at Mizzou in the fall of 1984. Sitting in our comfortable basement family room after 40 years of marriage, hearing the drumline and fight song on TV and watching the tiger mascot patrol the sidelines and hype up the crowd, I was transported through time.

After a year of dating, Rich proposed to me in September 1985. As if the beautiful platinum and diamond engagement ring—a family heirloom—wasn’t enough, my future husband also took me to the local Humane Society to pick out a kitten, which he knew I had been wanting for some time. We were immediately drawn to a little orange tabby, and once we got him home, we knew there was only one name that would fit—Truman. The name of the legendary Mizzou mascot.

Truman was our first experiment with “parenting,” living with Rich in his small apartment until we got married. Playful, cuddly, and a loud purrer, he spent his evenings curled up in our laps as we watched TV and his days lounging in the sun in front of the sliding glass door while we attended classes. After a few months, we began to feel it was unfair for him to be alone so much of the time. A co-worker at my part-time job mentioned that a stray cat had recently given birth to a litter of kittens near her apartment, and she wanted to make sure they found good homes. It didn’t take long for us to decide that one of them should become Truman’s “sibling.” Soon afterward, we brought home a beautiful gray kitten who we were convinced might just be a Russian blue, based on the bluish tint of his coat. But what to name him? As college students and history buffs, we decided that our Truman needed his own MacArthur.

The two young cats became fast friends. By this time, Truman had grown out of his kitten stage a bit and seemed to view the playful newcomer as a bit of a nuisance. When Truman was around 11 months old, we noticed some concerning changes in his health and began a series of visits to the vet. We soon learned that Truman had a disease known as FIP—Feline Infectious Peritonitis—which we had never heard of and which was, at the time, incurable. Before long, he became so sick that we had to make the difficult decision to let him go. Oddly enough, he was purring the loudest I had ever heard on our last morning with him.

With Truman gone, MacArthur seemed lost. Rich and I were also grief-stricken, and the best antidote for our sadness seemed to be another trip to the Humane Society, where we picked out a tiny, fluffy calico kitten who looked very much like a woolly worm. Although we had started a naming theme with our first two cats, this kitten was a female. We wracked our brains for a name, and with the recent popularity of the movie Splash, we soon had an answer that seemed perfect—Madison, which was both a presidential name and one that “could” fit a female.

Our little family seemed complete at that point, until one day when we happened to pass by the pet store at the local mall. In the window were several small kittens, and one of them had a long, snowy white coat and bright blue eyes. Before we knew it, he was in a travel carrier and making the brief trip to our still-small-but-getting-more-crowded apartment. Tyler had joined the group.

In the next couple of years, I graduated from Mizzou with a journalism degree, and Rich finished his master’s in mechanical and aerospace engineering. He had always planned to go on for a Ph.D., and the best fit for his interests and skills at the time was the University of Delaware. I had literally never traveled east of Illinois, but we were starry-eyed newlyweds chasing a dream.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have a lot of time to plan the move, so Rich’s mom, Pat, agreed to keep MacArthur and Madison while Tyler stayed with my parents. We weren’t looking forward to being catless, but putting them in the Ryder truck and adding pet deposits to the already exorbitant apartment prices in Delaware just wasn’t an option at first. We settled into East Coast life the best two Midwesterners could, but after several months, our homesickness wouldn’t subside. Since I had finally landed an exciting job with a software company in nearby Malvern, Pennsylvania, we decided it was time to send for the rest of our family.

We soon learned that my dad would not be handing Tyler back to us anytime soon. After being a “dog person” most of his life, he had grown very attached to Tyler, even teaching him tricks like yawning when Dad said, “Show me you’re sleepy!” God bless Rich—he never complained, but I know it hurt him to lose Tyler. Truthfully, though, two cats would be enough for us to handle at this stage in life.

Tyler performing his trick for my dad. It was important that Dad opened his mouth too.

Our next step was figuring out how to get Madison and MacArthur to Delaware. The distance was too far for Pat to drive by herself, but we discovered that pets could actually fly as cargo. Since the Philadelphia airport was fairly close to us, arrangements were made for Madison and MacArthur to fly from St. Louis to Philly in their carriers. I don’t remember the cost, but I’m pretty sure Pat paid for the transport—she’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever known and has been a steady guiding force throughout our marriage. On a warm Saturday afternoon, Rich and I arrived at the cargo pickup area to claim our jet-setting kitties. Although a little rattled and meowing intermittently, they seemed none the worse for wear.

Having MacArthur and Madison with us in Delaware made the transition a bit easier, but within a few months, our lives took another turn. At nearly the same time, Rich began to realize that the program in Delaware wasn’t really for him, and we discovered I was pregnant with our first child. It should have been a completely joyous time, but we were both apprehensive about being so far from our families with a baby on the way. After a year of ups and downs, we were headed back to Missouri—all four (and a half) of us.

Eric was born on a gray, chilly day in November, and we were over the moon. The next couple of years were spent watching him grow, learning to crawl, then walk—all while MacArthur and Madison looked on in bemusement. Madison was standoffish with everyone except me, while MacArthur was just the opposite. He would let baby Eric roll him around on the floor and wrestle with him like a stuffed animal, never once hissing or offering to bite. When Eric napped in the Pack’n’Play, MacArthur was often stretched out beside him inside the playpen.

Our family grew again in 1993 when our first daughter, Erin, was born. By this time, we had bought a small house, and Rich had settled into his job with McDonnell-Douglas (later Boeing). We had also come to the realization that we were never getting Tyler back from my parents, so on another fateful trip to a pet store, we discovered yet another fluffy white kitten—only this time, he had green eyes. Eric was ecstatic to finally get in on choosing a kitten, and Quincy was added to our household.

It was about this time that we really started to notice our kids’ differing personalities. Eric, while rambunctious and witty, has always been somewhat stoic, responsible, and by-the-book. Erin, who was now a toddler, was—and is—a little more whimsical and idealistic. Many of our family videos from that period document Eric’s disdain for his sister as she carried young Quincy across the family room in her favorite position—both hands around his neck. She usually seemed oblivious to the uproar and Eric’s angry protestations of “Let him go!”—already learning how to push her big brother’s buttons.

As time went on, we outgrew our little home and took the giant step of moving farther into the suburbs and building a much larger house. Erin was about to start kindergarten, and I was pregnant with our second daughter, Emily. We were thrilled to watch our new home go from a hole in the ground to a large, two-story white house where we would spend the next 21 years. Having never lived in a new house, I was adamant that our three aging cats would have to stay in the basement. I didn’t want to risk them messing up the top two floors with the hair and bodily fluids inherent with older cats, and since we were finishing the basement, I knew we’d still spend plenty of time with them.

At this time, Quincy was still considered “Eric’s cat,” and Emily was too young to care, but Erin made it known that she wasn’t happy she’d never been able to pick out her own cat. So on a Saturday morning at the local PetSmart, with her daddy firmly wrapped around her little finger, Erin chose our next feline boarder, who became “Truman 2.” I think the name was a compromise Rich struck with her to add yet a fourth cat to our basement while keeping the historical naming scheme somewhat intact.

 In the following years, the kids grew, Rich and I aged, and our cat family slowly began to exit one at a time. Eventually, we were down to just Quincy, who had battled cancer for a few months. As the end neared, I let everyone know that we would not be bringing any more cats into the house after he was gone. After all, Eric was now a teenager who would be leaving for college soon, and the girls were getting older and busier with dancing, sleepovers, and friends.

And so, the day after we walked Quincy over the rainbow bridge, Rich, the girls, and I found ourselves in the kitten room at the St. Charles County Pet Adoption Center…

I’d like to say they took me there kicking and screaming after my previous ultimatum, but the truth is that we just weren’t ready for a house without cats. The girls were still young enough that they would be around for much of the new cats’ lives, and Rich and I knew we would be empty nesters before long. The house would be SO quiet.

 As the girls flitted from cage to cage, my attention was drawn to a fluffy little buff-colored guy who came to the edge of his cage to be petted. He was subdued compared to the others, yet very friendly. We soon fell under his spell and decided to take him to the adjacent room where people could interact with potential adoptees. Just before we walked out, a gray fur ball reached through her cage bars and hooked Erin’s headband as she bent down to pet a different kitten. Somehow, we instinctively knew that this petite gray wisp was picking us. We took both kittens into the visiting room and got to know them.

We discovered that the shelter had named the buff kitty “Fajita,” which the girls thought was hilarious, but somehow we narrowed our choices to Radar or Cosmo. “Cosmo” came from The Fairly OddParents, one of the kids’ favorite cartoons at the time, but I was really fond of “Radar,” having been a huge fan of M*A*S*H and the character Radar O’Reilly while growing up. To add a little gravity to my choice, I mentioned that Big Bird’s teddy bear on Sesame Street was also named Radar, after Radar O’Reilly. Even though the girls weren’t really Sesame Street fans, they seemed to accept that Mom was not going to let go of the name, and it stuck.

I don’t remember how, but as the kittens played at our feet and we took turns holding and petting them, we came to the consensus that the little gray girl would become Gracie. The next era of Lesh cats was about to begin, and, softie that I am, I allowed the girls to talk me into giving the kittens the run of the whole house.

When we brought them home, Gracie was actually a little bigger than Radar, but he had enormous fluffy paws that reminded me of the oversized animal-paw slippers kids often wear. I was pretty sure he would grow into a large cat—we’ve since speculated that he might even be part Maine Coon—and it didn’t take long before he dwarfed Gracie, who stayed small but feisty. Despite their different temperaments, mellow Radar seemed protective of Gracie from the beginning, and thus began a siblingship that would span many years.

Radar and Gracie became fixtures around the house, always cuddling, sleeping, or playing together. Radar made me his human, enjoying my lap during the day and sleeping next to me at night, often on his back in my armpit. Gracie remained pretty independent but allowed us the occasional lap visit.

One day, Erin, now a teenager, and her boyfriend returned from a trip to his dad’s farm, where a stray orange tabby kitten had strolled in and made himself at home. Her boyfriend had decided his name would be Thor, and by some maneuvering that I still don’t understand, we once again had three cats in our household.

Not long after Thor arrived, a friend from church texted me that someone she knew had a very sweet kitten they could no longer keep. She knew we were “cat people”—would we be interested? Before instinctively responding, “Absolutely not!” I looked at the attached photo and shared it with Emily. She was the only one in our family who had never had her own cat—was now the time? He had beautiful Siamese-like markings, unlike any cat we’d had before. He was already named Henry, and we picked him up that evening.

Within what seemed the blink of an eye, Erin was in college, and Emily and Henry were inseparable. He was extremely cuddly with her, and she came to consider him her emotional support cat as we worked through some physical and mental health challenges during her teen years. Eventually, as much as we tried to slow the inevitable, Emily and Henry set off together for Indianapolis, where she earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology.

At home in Missouri, life seemed to come full circle when Rich’s mom took in two adult cats to keep Rich’s dad company as he battled Parkinson’s. After Charles’ death, Pat kept Socks and Kitty until it came time for her to move into a senior apartment. In a beautiful instance of reciprocity, we took in her elderly cats and cared for them through the last years of their lives, with Rich becoming especially attached to them.

Which brings us to the present. In 2019, we moved into a smaller, one-level house that will likely be our last before we need more care in the future. Radar, Gracie, and Thor made the move with us, but just before football season started this year, Thor received a surprise cancer diagnosis that took him from us very quickly at age 14. Radar and Gracie, both 17, are still with us.

Our children are all adults with families of their own and, not surprisingly, they all have cats. Eric and his wife, Mackenzie, started their own literary naming theme with their three kitties—Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, and Fitzwilliam. Emily and her husband, Liam, still have Henry but have added Alfie and Matari to their home in recent years. And although Erin ended up being a bit of a “dog person,” she couldn’t hold out any longer and recently brought home a female kitten she named Stormi to go along with her pit bull mix and black lab. Although her fiancé is allergic, his love for our daughter is evident in many ways, including taking daily medication just so he can love on Stormi as much as Erin.

As Rich and I near retirement, we realize we probably don’t have many more years with Radar and Gracie, but the four of us carry on—older, slower, wiser, but always together. And when they’re gone—no more cats. No, really. 

Hannibal, Mo (Zouree)

Welcome to Hannibal, Missouri.

Mention Hannibal, Missouri, to most people, and the first thing that comes to mind is probably the author Mark Twain. On a recent Saturday morning, that was not what was on my mind. My husband and I were on our way to Hannibal for something quite different—to pick up some supplies for our RV at the closest Walmart.

When we first bought our RV site at Mark Twain Lake a few years back, I was immediately excited to have a reason to get back to my roots in northeast Missouri. Having lived near St. Louis for more than 35 years, I missed the rural landscapes I had grown up with. Once my parents passed and we sold the farm where I grew up, we seldom traveled to that part of the state. But now I regularly reveled in watching the mature green soybean and corn fields pass by the windows of our blue Kia electric SUV as we drove north. Seeing a farmer maneuvering a combine or tractor immediately took me back to my childhood. Once, we even saw a drone crop-dusting, which was both fascinating and a little scary.

Hannibal is about a half hour away from our campsite, but it’s the nearest “city”—a term I use somewhat loosely for a town of about 17,000 people. Situated on the banks of the Mississippi River, Hannibal has become synonymous with 19th-century river lore, largely because of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Twain was actually born in the tiny village of Florida, Missouri, very close to our place at the lake. A couple of autumns ago, while enjoying a weekend at the RV, we visited the Mark Twain Birthplace State Historic Site, which includes the two-room cabin where he was born. 

As we approached the city limits on this summer morning, I found myself noticing billboards and signs for the town’s many attractions. Tourism is crucial to Hannibal’s economy, with places like the Mark Twain Boyhood Home & Museum, the Mark Twain Cave Complex, and the Tom & Huck Statue. Beyond Twain’s legacy, Hannibal is known for its late 19th-century Victorian architecture and as the birthplace of famous Titanic survivor “Unsinkable” Molly Brown.

It was not lost on me that Walmart is located adjacent to the Huck Finn Shopping Center, a place I remember well from my childhood. An annual trip to JCPenney in that shopping center was a must for our family as a new school year approached. Our small hometown had very limited shopping and dining options, so a trip to Hannibal almost always meant stopping at “Penney’s,” or when I became a teen, Maurice’s. Although my father was a bit of a grizzled farmer, he loved to watch my mom and me try on new outfits and give us his feedback during these outings. I can still see him sitting on one of the benches in the misses’ department, my mom’s purse on his lap and shopping bags at his feet.

These trips always included lunch or dinner out, something we seldom indulged in closer to home. Although restaurants came and went, two that come to mind from that era are Lum’s and Ponderosa. My dad lived for the salad bar at Ponderosa, and we never left hungry. Even less expensive restaurants like Kentucky Fried Chicken and Cassano’s Pizza were in our regular dining rotation when visiting Hannibal.

As Rich and I were about to turn left into the shopping center, the Hannibal Pirates sign in front of the high school across the street caught my eye. As a devoted band kid in the ’70s, I spent one day a year with my high school marching band participating in the Hannibal Marching Festival. We were one of the smaller bands, but that didn’t diminish our enthusiasm as we marched in the parade competition and later performed our polished halftime show on the Pirates’ football field. Being across the street from the shopping center also allowed us to do some record shopping during the brief amount of downtime our director allowed us each year. I distinctly remember returning one year from the record store with a 45 of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “After the Love Has Gone,” my favorite song at the time. Dodging the four lanes of traffic between the shopping center and the high school was well worth the risk.

As we approached Walmart, it dawned on me that the Hannibal I experienced growing up was much different from the Hannibal most people outside the area recognize. I don’t remember ever reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, although perhaps I did at some point. My only specific memory of reading Twain’s work is from junior high school, when we were assigned his short story “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” 

But the biggest impact of Twain’s work on this little farm girl was the movie musical adaptation of Tom Sawyer, released in 1973. Starring Johnny Whitaker (from TV’s Family Affair) as Tom, a very young Jodie Foster as Becky Thatcher, and Celeste Holm as Aunt Polly, the movie and its memorable music and lyrics provided all I needed to know about Twain’s tales of life on the Mississippi. The release of the movie was such a big event in northeast Missouri that my family splurged on a night at our local State Theatre to see it. I don’t recall how many people the theater held, but it was packed that night. I can still remember melodies from songs like “Hannibal, Mo (Zouree)” and “Freebootin’.” Only as an adult did I discover that John Williams, one of my musical idols, conducted and adapted the music for the film. The song score by Richard and Robert Sherman and Williams’ adaptation score were even nominated for an Academy Award.

Nostalgia faded as we entered the Walmart parking lot and I remembered why we came to Hannibal in the first place. It was time to find a shopping cart and track down the trash bags, batteries, and breakfast cereal that had brought us there.

Grandma Trower’s Chocolate Chip Squares

Grandma Trower and one of my recent attempts at the “pan cookie.”

I can’t remember when I first discovered the Nestlé Toll House pan cookie recipe, but I do remember the realization it brought about. It was likely when I started using the recipe on the bag of chocolate chips to make cookies for my husband and young family. Or perhaps it was when my young daughters first helped me whip up a batch for a holiday or birthday celebration. To say it was an “a-ha” moment would be an understatement.

Those were Grandma Trower’s chocolate chip squares.

When I was six years old, my parents moved my mom’s mother into a single-wide mobile home just behind our double-wide. Newly widowed, Grandma Trower was grateful to be living so close to our family and to be free from the responsibility of tending her own small farm. At under five feet tall and around 70 pounds, Grandma was always diminutive in stature, but food was definitely one of her love languages.

My mom would often tell me about the huge breakfasts and dinners—what most of us “city people” today call lunch—Grandma Trower made when she was growing up. Homemade biscuits every day, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables from her garden, and some killer cinnamon rolls. Leftovers became lunches for Mom and her siblings as they attended a one-room schoolhouse not far from where they lived.

One day, not long after Grandma moved next door, I entered the front door of her trailer to the unmistakable aroma of chocolate chip cookies. The kitchen was right at the front of the house and so small that the heat from the oven noticeably warmed the entire room, regardless of the season.

I can still see Grandma bending down gingerly to open the oven door, her back slightly twisted and bowed by osteoporosis. As she pulled out a square pan and placed it on a trivet on the counter, I couldn’t help but be surprised.

It wasn’t cookies after all!

The golden-brown crust was dotted with chocolate chips that created dimples in the surface. Around the pan, the edges were slightly darker and, I assumed, a little crunchier. Although I wanted to try them right away, Grandma let me know they needed to cool before we could cut them.

We likely passed the time with one of our favorite activities—playing dominoes on the big overstuffed couch in her living room. She sat at one end and I at the other, with the dominoes spread out end-to-end between us. The decor was unmistakably ’70s—green sculpted carpet, brown wood paneling, and harvest-gold drapes. But the hours I spent with Grandma were timeless.

She was my main playmate as I grew up, but also my mentor and confidant. I never felt like a little girl with her. She treated me as an equal and provided stability and comfort when my parents had other things to attend to on the farm. She spoke softly but could be firm when needed, and I never doubted her wisdom. One of her mischievous grins, hinting at an unspoken secret between us, could make me feel ten feet tall.

And special.

Her chocolate chip squares became a sort of security blanket for me. Had a rough day at school? Got in trouble with Mom and Dad? Was Roger (my older brother and only sibling) too busy with friends or school to do something with me? Grandma Trower’s chocolate chip squares always came to the rescue.

I even remember her having a batch ready for me when I came home from college on many weekends. Others were welcome to eat them, but I always knew she made them for ME.

My love of chocolate chip “anything” continues to this day, but I never even considered trying to make Grandma’s chocolate chip squares myself. I never thought to ask her for the recipe. After she passed away in 1992, I assumed the delicacy and tradition I so closely associated with my childhood had died with her.

Until the day I turned over the familiar yellow bag of Nestlé Toll House chocolate chips and saw the “Toll House Pan Cookie” recipe.

I couldn’t believe it.

This was her secret recipe, hiding in plain sight all these years.

I’ve made chocolate chip cookies from the recipe periodically, but I’ve only tried the pan version a handful of times. Although I’m confident my process and ingredients were almost identical to hers, Grandma’s chocolate chip squares always tasted a lot better.

And as I get older, I think I understand why.

The Lisa Nicole House

Our family home on Lisa Nicole Court, built in 1998.

My husband is a man of few words, something I’ve grown accustomed to after being married for 40 years. So when I received a text from him that was merely a Zillow link to our old house, I wasn’t immediately sure why he had sent it. Then he added, “It is listed as Coming Soon.”

In that moment, my heart did a little flip. It was the only house we’ve ever had built from scratch, and the house where we raised our three children through much of their childhood. Getting the “Lisa Nicole” house ready to sell in 2019 wasn’t easy and took a few months, as it needed a lot of updating to appeal to current buyers. We also needed to sort through 21+ years of accumulated “stuff” and let go of as much as possible. 

We always called it the “Lisa Nicole” house. When we were picking out the lot to build the home, we had all been tickled about the names of the streets in the new subdivision, which were all proper first and middle names of people—Lisa Nicole, Margaret Michelle, Macey Lynne, Brennen Thomas, Sara Beth. Rumor had it that the streets were named after some of the builders’ own children and grandchildren, but I never really knew if that was true. 

Now I was looking at the property listing, hoping that maybe the new buyers would be a young family who could enjoy the neighborhood and house as much as we had. Looking through the photos was bittersweet. It was obviously staged by the realtor, and several changes (new flooring, new kitchen counters, a redone powder room) had been made since we last lived there. What struck me most, though, were the elements that looked the same: the light tan/brown brick fireplace flanked by built-in oak bookshelves in the family room. The oak stair railing that paralleled the stairs from the first to the second floor, then circled the large loft area at the top. The seashell sinks in the vanities in the master bathroom. These were all very ‘90s touches that I clearly remember picking out as the house was just beginning to take shape in the middle of the dirt and gravel lot. I was surprised yet pleased that these remnants of “our house” had continued on even after we sold it. I did not hold out any hope that a new round of buyers would do the same, though.

After glancing through the photos, my eyes fell on one line on the main listing page: Open House 7/18. Wouldn’t it be fun to go and walk through the house again for old time’s sake? I was sure my older daughter, Erin, would go with me if I asked. Now in her early 30s, she was just about to start kindergarten when we first moved into the house way back when. 

But then I began to take a closer look at the listing photos. 

The fireplace and bookshelves. One Christmas morning comes back to me. The kids’ stockings were hanging on the bright brass metal screen in front of the gas fire. The tree was twinkling in the corner, and the kids had gotten up early and were anxious to start unwrapping presents. Our daughters, roughly ages 2 and 8, were in their plaid flannel nightgowns, long blond hair cascading down their backs. Our son, Eric, who was nearly a teen, sat stoically on the blue velvet sectional, obviously too cool for this whole scene. 

My husband, Rich, was adjusting the video camera on the tripod, making sure to get everything set to just the right angle for the present-opening. “First the stockings!” he said firmly. The girls ran over and pulled their stockings from the screen, then sat down on the carpet in front of the fire to see what goodies were inside. As soon as they put their hands in, their expressions turned to disgust. First one, then the other, slowly pulled their hands out, each flexing their chocolate-covered fingers and saying “Ewwww.” Rich and I looked at each other with exasperation. Santa would never again bring chocolate candy for the stockings, or if he did, we’d make sure not to turn the fireplace on.

The staircase leading from the first floor to the second floor. In my mind’s eye, I could see a high-school-aged Eric bounding down the stairs two at a time, headed for the basement. He was wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt, his short blond hair damp from his nightly shower. As he reached the bottom, he opened the door to the basement and loudly slammed it behind him, disappearing to play video games on the big screen TV for the next couple of hours. On weekends, he was joined by his large group of friends, their laughter and voices rising up through the vents into our family room. Saturday mornings often started with me finding one or two young men sleeping on our family room sectional, snoozing quietly after a long night of playing Halo or another popular game of the time.

The kitchen. In early 2002, I was thoroughly enjoying my life as a stay-at-home mom to my younger daughter, Emily. We spent much of our days together in the kitchen with the small TV above the sink tuned to Nick Jr. She loved shows like Maisie and Oswald, and happily sat in her booster seat, attached by metal arms to the island’s Formica countertop. As I loaded the dishwasher, she often ate cut-up spaghetti from her brightly colored plastic plate with her matching plastic fork. Having just started talking, she would happily call her favorite meal “skadebbi” for the next year or more.

The master bathroom. A few years later, Eric had headed off to college, leaving Rich and me with just the two girls. As I awoke in the middle of the night, groggy and searching the dark, I felt a small hand pulling on my pajama top. “Mama, my tummy hurts.” These words are probably my least favorite in the world, as I have a huge phobia about throwing up. I hate the words vomit and puke. With a passion.

I quickly sat up and grabbed her in my arms, barely making it to our master bath toilet before the inevitable heaving began. As I gagged along with her, I tried my best not to let her know how difficult it was for me, but of course she knew. And instinctively, we both knew it was going to be a long night. After round one, I ran out to the loft and grabbed the kids’ folding foam lounges that each extended into a flat sort of mattress. I quietly dragged them through the master bedroom, past a sleeping Rich, and into the bathroom with me, closing the door behind me. The two of us would spend the rest of the night there together as nausea and sleep alternated until the sun came up.

The dining room. When we were picking out lighting fixtures for the house, we did our best to keep costs down, but one item we splurged on was a beautiful brass and crystal chandelier to hang above the dining room table. It was gorgeous and opulent, and that room played a major role in hosting many family gatherings and dinners—Thanksgivings, Christmases, birthday celebrations, and many more.

But when I think of the dining room, the memory that comes back has nothing to do with opulence or celebration. On a beautiful, sunny October morning in 2008, I answered the phone in the kitchen to find my dad on the end of the line. I immediately knew something major was wrong when he asked, “Sis, is somebody there with you?”  

“Yeah, Dad, Rich and Eric are both here. What’s going on?” Seconds later, all I remember is dropping the phone and taking a few steps through the short hallway into the darkened dining room. As I fell to the floor and curled up on my side, I heard a loud, guttural moan and realized it was coming from me. Rich had grabbed the phone and was talking to my dad as I sobbed. My big brother, my only sibling, had died by suicide just an hour or so earlier. The rest of the day, and the next several weeks, remain a blur to me.

As I scroll back to the Zillow listing page, I know that I won’t be attending the open house. The house that I thought I wanted to visit doesn't exist anymore—not because it has changed, but because the people who made it home are no longer living there together. 

Back in 1998, we had built our dream house in a neighborhood that was just beginning to fill with young families. The elementary school was new, the trees were small, and so were our children. We chose it because we could picture a bright future there, even though we had no idea what that future would actually look like. Now we have actually lived the future we were only anticipating back then. It will always be our dream house, but it’s no longer our family’s home.