Ode to Lisy
Her name is Lisa. She is my niece. I don't share a lot about my family on this blog. There is baggage. Some of it beautifully tailored and elegant. Some of it like a raggedy backpack filled with dusty bricks. But, most of it is heavy. Still. It is unfair of me to hint that all is unease in my family. There are so many bright stars. There is a great nephew, Alex, who has eyes that you could melt into; they are his great grandfather Jack's eyes, full of kindness and a gentle spirit. There is Katie, who also carries those beautiful blue peepers, but also has his gift for story telling and putting words together. My father and I used to sit in his car on chore-day Thursdays and make up stories together. I can see her doing this with her children. There is Amy, who loves without any conditions. The women in my family are known for having strong spines, like Grandma Rose. We may look frail, but test us. I dare you.
There is a quote by Robin Williams that I wish I saw more of in my family, though.
"You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it."
I see a lot of salt in my family, but not enough pepper. And no. No one wants true madness in their family. That isn't what Robin meant and you know it. I mean...
Black sheep. Rabblerousers. Rebels. I have always had a weakness in my family for the ones whom Steve Jobs called the crazy ones. The misfits. The round pegs in the square holes.
I find them more interesting. Almost anyone can fit in. And some prefer it that way. They enjoy a cookie cutter existence. But, I'd rather not sit next to them at a dinner party. Give me the weirdos. The odd ones. The ones who refuse to conform. The ones who have lived to tell a tale. The ones who WILL be themselves and WILL NOT apologize.
Lisa was a Calamity Jane from day one. She was smart. I don't care what you say, you will NEVER find a black sheep who is stupid. Now, I can show you twenty really stupid white sheep. Give me the black one.
Lisa liked to stir things up. She couldn't help it. She could play the white sheep but eventually, that rebel would need to find its footing. She was born when I was still in high school. She enjoyed lap sitting, but liked to hear a story to go along with it. She would sit quietly in my lap listening to a story and after five minutes, she would whisper, "Is it time for the dragon yet?" She wasn't interested in the good people of the village who did good deeds and were rewarded with a magic cow who gave them delicious chocolate milk instead of plain old white.
No. Lisa knew that her Aunt's stories always held a dragon or a witch. And that there was usually a little girl named Lisy who ended up taming it or tricking the witch into giving her the wrong apple...the one with four lucky wishes instead of servitude.
She was after my own heart. And took it.
She and I were close when she was little. Once, during a dinner where she was being very naughty, her father sternly told her to go sit on the living room sofa. Instead, she made a beeline for my lap, figuring she was safe there and could still eat. She was pulled off of me, kicking and screaming, holding tight to a hank of my hair.
Later that evening, she and I cuddled up on my bed, listening to James Taylor sing that "you've got a friend" while I painted my toenails and then hers, too. I told her that when I lived in New York City she could come visit and we'd ride the subway all day long.
That never happened and shortly after, I was disowned by my mother and lost contact with her for over a decade. Well....not exactly. Her mother, my sister, C, carefully stayed in contact with me during all those years. There was no internet. We wrote letters. I learned about Lisa from letters. Learned that she was still headstrong, still imaginative and smart. Still a smarty pants. C would write things like, "She is giving me gray hair, but I love her so much."
I still have a letter in my memento box from Lisa when she was barely 13.
Dear Aunt,
Mom says that I should write a letter to you because I am grounded and bored and that you'd probly like to hear from me. I'm grounded because I snuck out a window and went out with some friends in the middle of the night. We didn't do anything. Becos there is nothing to do in this town. So now I am stuck in this boring house. I hope you are doing good. I miss you. This is the end because like I said this is a boring town and I am grounded. I love you so much.
XXXOOOOOOOO Lisy
Lisa is now a grown woman, soon to be a grandmother. She's had her share of knocks. Had her share of good fortune. But, she's never lost that spark of madness that makes her stick out just a little.
It is her Achilles heel and her magic kingdom. She speaks her mind too freely. She says exactly what she thinks and then, like me, repents privately. She is afraid of everything and nothing. She runs her own business and answers to no one.
When I found out that I had cancer again, she sent me a Marco Polo and....typically....asked....
"WHAT THE HELL? Enough is enough! This is such bull crap!"
I sent one back, agreeing wholeheartedly.
Since then, we stay in touch. She doesn't pander to me, doesn't solemnly ask me how I am feeling, she just jumps right in, wanting to know the scoop, telling me news of her children, who are now giving her gray hairs.
She was in town a few days ago and stopped by to visit. At our first hug, my throat closed.
Lisy. She still held her little girl scent of blueberries, snicker bars, and nutmeg.
When it came time for her to go after a nice visit, T insisted that we take a photo even though I hate the way I look now.
"You'll want it to look at later," she said.
She's right. I did. I do.
I hugged her goodbye and as I watched her car pull down the driveway, I thought to myself,
It's time for the dragon, Lisy. Thanks for being here with me.
I love you...exactly as is.
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