Welcome to Greenspring

 Friends. Where I live is large and the buildings all connected, which makes for some very long corridors. I stepped off the elevator into one such corridor. Seeing a baby carriage at the other end of the the corridor I squealed silently, knowing that I could coo at the baby soon. Then I realized, given the odd silhouette of the baby carriage at the far end of the hall might not be newborn’s first visit to great grandma and more Fido’s gotta pee. Then I realized it didn’t even matter bc all that matters is that I’d be cooing at something shortly, and it didn’t matter the species and I silently squealed to myself again.

Then the anxiety kicked in — what if my cooing interrupted an intimate moment, or an argument?  Maybe I should walk by and not acknowledge their ... whatever that thing is. But what if that marks me as the lady who doesn’t acknowledge other peoples great-grand-newborn thing can you believe it walked right by me so of course I panicked.

I was walking the fine line between being happy to coo but anxious about speaking toa stranger. You may know the spot.

I remind you I am in a very long corridor. The above plays out in my head as I get closer and closer and at some point I realize I am looking at a man sitting on a bench with his rollator and resting on the seat of the rollator, a full grocery bag.

Welcome to the home. 

All Together Now

Is “in one’s altogether” a regional expression? Have you heard the term used in conversation? Do you know what it means? I found out the hard way, and I remember the day.

Whenever I tell a story about Kwajalein I feel I need to preface it with “it was an unusual time in our lives, and we were in an unusual place” but that never quite explains it all. Indeed, a time and a place like no other.

One of Tom’s closest friends was Rich, a colleague at Lincoln Lab and maybe a few years older than Tom, but not by much. Rich was married to Joan, and they were lovely people and Tom and Rich loved to talk food and finance on their flights (or boat rides, if the airplane windshield doesn't cooperate) to work, because it was Kwaj and it was unlike anyplace else. In my earliest days, as I met all those new people I would write descriptions in the margins of the phone book (because it was 1998 and I had 2000 names to learn) and the decription next to the Sasielas was “elegant, tall people on the flight from Majuro” because they were objectively very tall; but the first thing you'd notice about them was that they were even kinder than they were tall. I was stressed, Tom and I were probably bickering (we called ourselves The Bickersons for a reason), and these two sets of hands reached down from on high and grabbed our babies and said, Now, breeeeeathe. It might have been five minutes and it could have been five hours, but what I remember is how kind they were to on the last flight of my first trip to Kwajalein with two kids under two, and I immediately loved them both.  The fall after we arrived Rich and Joan’s daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren moved there for work, too, and Amy became and remains one of my dearest friends.

It was a very small community on a very small military base, and we all lived within easy walking distance of each other’s homes, in a very safe environment where we rarely locked our doors. Amy and her family had left for several weeks (most of us came back to Boston at least once a year for work and that’s likely why they were gone) but their kitchen door was open as I knew it would be. Probably their front door was, too, but we were kitchen door friends, and often let ourselves in.

In what will come as surprise to some, I don’t actually make a habit of entering the homes of my friends when they are not there, but I had good reason to do it this time, I’m sure, even if I don’t exactly remember why I did. I probably was dropping off a dish, or maybe I was leaving a meal,  anticipating their return because that last flight, the third of three five hour flights from Boston, was a killer.

So imagine my surprise when I opened the back door to Amy’s house only to be  greeted by Rich, my friend’s father, and my husband’s best friend, cooking bacon at his daughter’s stove and not even wearing an apron! To cook bacon? Who cooks bacon without an apron?

I lifted my jaw up off Amy’s kitchen floor, backed slowly out the door, and in those days before email and cell phones, immediately called Joan, asking for her to apologize to Rich for me because in my … stupor? … I had not done so, and I explained what happened. 

Joan laughed, explaining, “Oh, that’s just Rich cooking in his altogether." Which doesn’t quite mean without and apron. If only it had.

While I have your attention, this is what climate change is doing to the Marshall Islands.

I can see my house from here 

We called the house Four Palms (bonus Geof adds scale)

We never lacked for fresh potassium straight from the backyard

The main route home after work, they called this spot the Callahan Tunnel

The Perils of Pauline? But My Name is Linda

In my defense, I was tired and it was cold outside. It was Thanksgiving night, after a lovely day with 96's fiance, hereinafter known as Dr. Ombré, and her family in Chicago, and I had returned to the hotel and was just about to climb into bed for an early flight when I realized I had left my phone cable in the car. I went to bed confident that I'd have enough power to get to the morning, and in the morning I'd plug in once I was in the car. No problem; I've done it a thousand times. And I'm lazy so there was never a chance I'd've walked out to the car anyway.

The next morning I finished packing the last of my sundries, tossed everything in the back seat, and hit the road. I knew where the Dunkin was, so I head there, pick up my iced tea (no lemon no sugar) and reach for the cord to plug in. No cable. Hmmm. Maybe I packed it by mistake? I didn't think I had, but it wouldn't be the first time. So I shrugged and pulled up directions to the airport and crossed my fingers that I'd drive faster than the battery drained.

I headed out, expecting to find a gas station to top off before I returned the car. I knew I was going in the general direction of the airport, so I wasn't too worried. And as a bonus I might also see a Walgreen's or Target and pick up a cable. But the area I drove into appeared to be the luxury car dealership capital of greater Highland Park: BMW, Mercedes, and more, one after the other. I even desperately wondered if dealerships have their own gas stations and would they sell me a couple of gallon? I saw an entrance to a highway (49? 94? 40? I don't know!) But it was numbered, and it was going in a generally airportward direction, so I got on and crossed my fingers again. Which worked for about five minutes, when the phone unceremoniously died. Even the car wondered what happened, asking me if I want to check the phone battery because the bluetooth had failed. Thanks, dude. It could be the battery, yeah.

I didn't dare get off the highway, for fear I'd never find it again if a gas station was blocks or more away. So I followed the signs for O'Hare, and eventually saw signs for Car Rental Returns and let out a whoop and a hallellujah and returned the car -- with the gas gauge 2 gallons low. Twelve dollars later (don't tell Tom) got on the shuttle, and made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare.

I was almost to the security checkpoint when I realized my boarding pass in on my phone. My dead phone. A quick, not-at-all-discreet, complete unpacking and repacking of my bag yielded exactly zero phone cables. Fortunately the crowds were thin, and the line at the ticket counter was nonexistent. I got my olde tyme paper boarding pass and I made it through TSA in record time, planning to pick up a cable at the first storefront inside the terminal.

I'm going to assume my new lightning cable was handcrafted by fairies who work under starlight on the night of the new moon, because that sucker set me back forty American dollars. Plus tax.

Not even at my gate yet, I found the first seat next to a power source, and sat for about 10 minutes, until I had enough charge to find (another) Dunkins and pick up breakfast including (another) iced tea for the flight. Dunkins in hand, I mosied/moseyed/strolled to my gate. I'm early, so I'm not super surprised no one's waiting at the gate. The sign behind the counter says "Flight Closed" so I figure I'll just eat my breakfast and people watch in leisure while this flight closes up and my phone charges. 

A family with a baby carriage rushed up and I watched empathetically as they collapsed the carriage, got out their paperwork and juggled all that baby crap you have to fly with when you fly with a baby, and silently thanked goodness those days are behind me. And turned back to my leisurely breakfast.

After I finished breakfast I glanced up at the gate again. The sign still says flight closed, but this time I notice TO: Washington/Reagan. So I (still leisurely, mind you, just add in a splash of confused) leave my bag and tea my seat, and walk up to the counter. "This is not #123, right? My flight to DCA isn't for another hour." After all, 5 minutes ago didn't I still have 90 minutes? "Actually," person at the counter tells me, "this is the #123 and we're just waiting for a passenger." I think she saw the look on my face, asked me my name and confirmed that this is my flight. Oops.

So now, not so leisurely, I run back to my luggage (and phone and solid gold charging cable) and am trying to dig out my boarding pass when the woman says, "Just go! I already got you!"

Got on the plane, found my seat, and ... I had the whole row to myself.

They were literally waiting for me. Just me. I sat down and buckled just in time to hear the overhead announcement that we're all here now and the doors are closed. And that someone had found a pair of glasses in the jetway so let us know if you're missing your glasses. Within minutes we were away from the gate and in the air. And I practiced knitting blind because I was so not going to admit those glasses were mine.

So the lesson to learn here, people, is that I am never not traveling the day after Thanksgiving ever again. Even if I don't plan to travel, I'll get the ticket just so I can have another whole row to myself.

And never trust your body clock.

Hail, hail, the gang's all here!

We've Got to Stop Meeting Like This

I remember as a young kid, maybe 7 or 8 at the time, bemoaning to my mom my inherent ordinariness. "I'm so ordinary, mom. There's nothing special about me. Jimmy's special: it's right there in his needs!" (My oldest brother, Jim, had Down syndrome.) "Jeanne and Jack are twins, so that makes them special. Andrew's special because he's the baby. But there's nothing special about me."

Feigning shock, Mom replied, "Not special? What? You're special because you're the best and only Linda in our whole family! We'd be so sad if we had a family without a Linda in it!" And somehow that satisfied my 8 year old ego and I took my rightful place on the special pedestal. 

That memory came back to me one day a few years ago when 96 mentioned that, while he was sure I liked him fine, he feared I didn't think there was anything special about Pixel. It was an easy misundertanding to explain:  C was, well, C! And tiny Ada was a gorgeous weirdo, with her ear tufts and her beautiful long coat, and her habit of demanding to be let out the front door, only to walk around to the back and immediately howl to be let back in. One hundred times a day. Momo might have been Tom's reincarnation (based on their shared love of sitting in the warm sun I was never able to fully rule this out), while Scruffy had those crazy paws and that glossy coat. All, by definition, special. Pixel was "just" that tabby I pulled out from under someone's porch.

But Pixel? Ordinary? That was a bridge too far, and an accusation I could not let stand.  Pixel and his siblings, Alpha and Gummitch, had come to us under somewhat false pretenses: A friend put out a call on social media in the summer of 2006 that a cat had abandoned her four calico kittens under their deck. I volunteered my Havahart trap for the low low price of taking two of the kittens. Tom approved, and looked forward to meeting our newest family members. 

Gummitch in back; Pixel front left, Alpha, right

So imagine my surprise when, one by one, we pulled kittens out of the trap that afternoon. Tabbies, one and all. Two grey, two orange, but not a calico in the mix. "Oops," my friend said, upon my commenting something along the lines of, "These aren't calicos at all. They're just ordinary tabbies" because I'm super gracious like that. 

My friend took one of the orange tabbies (she named him Lanai), but what was I going to do with not one, not two, but three POTCs (plain old tabby cats)? I tossed the two kids and the three cats back into the car and headed home, stopping unannounced and panicked at another friend's house with the hopes she might want one or two. Or three. Lucky for us, she wasn't home.

I prepared Tom as best I could. "They're cute," I said. "They're sweet. I'm sure they'll make great pets. But they're not calicos," I told him. I didn't mention that there were three of them. Oops.

Alpha had a brief stint at at a neighbor's house, but their Pomeranian pulled rank and after a few days we were back to a family of four humans and five cats (Scruffy's origin story was written a few weeks later.)

I came to appreciate the charms of all the kittens, and their personalities showed through early. Alpha was the adventurer we predicted on Day One, having escaped the nest I had made for them before any of his brothers. And Gummy was the lap cat, always ready to burrow into a lap or under a couch cushion. 

And I quickly came to see just how special little Pixel was. He had the silkiest, smoothest coat. And a personality that far outsized that tiny kitten body. He was a "woolie," a term I had never heard before, but it describes a cat who, for cat reasons (often momma's sudden departure), sucks on fabric that has some kind of nap or texture to it. It might be a bathmat, or it might be a towel, or it might be an electric blanket. In Pixel's case it was all of these things and more. He chewed through two of electric blankets, right down to exposing wires, before I finally discovered heated mattress pads, which are far more cat-resistant, although anyone who has ever owned a cat knows that nothing on the planet is actually cat-proof.

Poor C learned to tolerate Pixel suckling on him, too; and the others climbing Mount C for play and excercise. Poor, put-upon C. Ada just lurked in the distance, snickering silently, all the while thinking, better you than me, dude. 

When I moved to DC in 2019, Zoet came with me, but the cats stayed with 96; and by this summer it was just him and Pixel. When 96 moved to Oregon a few weeks ago, Pixel accompanied him as a carryon in the passenger cabin, joining Hannah her cat Ezra to began building their own little cattery in Eugene.

A few weeks ago Pixel was feeling under the weather, and his new vet uncovered an array of issues, including diabetes and diabetic ketoacidosis. Further testing also revealed lung tumors, and with sad memories of my having likely extended Scruffy's suffering by trying to treat his cancer a couple of years ago, 96 made the wise decision not to treat, to minimize his discomfort and to euthanize. 

So I've had a bit of time to remember just how special Pixel was, and how he was the softest, blanketiest, best damned Pixel in our whole family. Ours would have been an incomplete family indeed if we had not had our special Pixel rounding out menagerie. 

RIP Pixel, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in peace and comfort, with his humans by his side.

It's Cicada O'Clock Somewhere

It started out almost imperceptible, in early May, sounding like the soft snore Zoet made when she slept. It sounded so much like her in fact that I turned to look for her and decided that the cats must be breathing particularly loudly that day, which turned into a couple of days. That was followed by an irritating, distant tractor. Not loud enough to close the patio doors, but loud enough to scowl, stare sternly in the noise's direction, and wonder why it's taking so long to mow the grass.

Then the jet planes started circling overhead, just the constant drone of a jet coming in for a landing but never quite finding the runway and circling around again.

You know the Brood X emergence is starting when you see their little holes in the ground as they dig themselves out. If you're lucky you'll see a muddy chimney reinforcement. Then you see the last pupal stage, at least if you look fast, because once they're out of the ground they shed that last exoskeleton (by this time they've already shed four or so while still underground) and leave it in some random place for you to sit on, or for it to fall on you, or, if you're a cat and you're lucky, your momma brings you one to bat around.

Then, you're all cicadas, all the time. Well, from dawn until dusk anyway. 

My completely unscientific, anecdotal evidence and observations (based on a sample size of exactly one, with a margin of error rate of +/- 100%) allow me to draw a few conclusions:

Once they find a safe, secure point to latch to they flex their little  cicada shoulder muscles and in an Incredible Hulk-like transformation (watch the video and tell me I'm wrong), they burst through their exoskeleton, emerging colorless, except for those crazy red eyes. I caught this one in the evening and time-lapse-videoed (is that a word?) the transformation, which seemed to be synched with dawn. Watch the sliver of window on the right to see what I mean.

Gradually over the course of an hour or two they harden and deepen in color to the now-familiar black, sometimes with a striped underbelly and delicate, transparent wings edged in orange. And they'll hang around a bit if you name them. 

These images were taken over the course of about 90 minutes, beginning minutes after the hulking? Exit from the exoskeleton? I can't really call it an explosion because cicadas already use that word for something else ...

... This year's Brood X periodical cicadas have spent 17 years underground, sipping liquid from the small roots of trees (they particularly like maple I've been told) at about 8 inches below the surface. If, while digging their way out at the end of the cycle they happen to pass through a particular mass of fungus, the fungus attaches itself, gets inside the exoskeleton, and takes over what I will for the sake of a PG rating call the back end of the cicada. The fungus eventually takes control of the cicada, until the fungus's turn to to reproduce, at which time they, let's just say, explode. Click at your own risk, but I promise you won't be sorry. (Credit SmithsonianMagazine.com, May 20,2021.)

No matter how many you've seen (hundreds? probably thousands), no matter how close you've gotten (inches), no matter how many photos you've uploaded to #CicadaSafari (457 if you're me) you're still allowed to scream when they land on you. I don't make the rules.

Little did I know at the time that I first heard those barely audible snores that became an irritant that became a complaint that became my very own tiny jet engines that they would so quickly become the obsession that has me planning a vacation around the Brood XIX emergence in 2024. (Hello, Missouri!)

I have too many photos not to share a few (don't be fooled: it's not a few) of my favorites. Not in the least bit sorry about it, either. Just pretend each one is labelled, "Cicada, greater DC area, Spring 2021." That'll make it easier for all of us.

When Doors Close ...

It shouldn't have to be said, but I really was joking about this being a place for eulogizing dead pets this past November when I lost Zoet. 

Meanwhile, (spoiler alert) Momo started acting off around Thanksgiving, turning her nose up at mealtime, a distinctly un-Momo-ish way to act. At first the vet thought it was just an infection and antibiotics were begun, to no effect. Eventual test results came back indicating that she had lymphoma, and without treatment she would swiftly decline. So 96 began her on a course of chemo, only then to realize that her decline would be swift and precipitous even with chemo, and he withdrew treatment in mid-January.

I was glad to be able to drive up to Boston for an overnight to say a proper goodbye to her. She's been a bit more than a cat to me; you may remember that purely by chance she came into our lives and took over our hearts the weekend after we lost C; and by even greater serendipity I learned she had been born the day after Tom died. Tom, of the infamous, "Linda, if I die I want to come back as your cat." That Tom. So while I don't believe in reincarnation, I also can't not believe in reincarnation, either, and little Momo, napper in chief, always had first pick of pillows at bedtime. The veterinarians at Mass Vet Referral Hospital, as always, were so kind and honest with us, and she crossed over the rainbow bridge in comfort in January. I'm sure Zoet was happy to see her familiar face as they were good friends, both always choosing a nap or a good meal over a run outside. Because outside ... there be monsters!

Momo doing Momo, but check out that lawn

96 even tried a feeding tube. No one liked that, least of all Momo.

Momo feat. Pixel

Where's the window opening, you might ask.

Say hello to Abigail (Adams) and Clara (Barton),  a mother/daughter pair that adopted me a month ago.

The clipped ear indicates her spay status

Abigail, a formerly feral cat who benefited from a catch/spay/release program run by PAWS of PA, is clearly  part meerkat -- but also part stubborn mule, which I learned the hard way when it was time for her first vet visit. She spent the next week under my bed, and I spent the next week checking for proof of life a few times each day. We'll get to the vet eventually, I hope. She's actually FIV+ so I assume we'll get to know the vets soon enough.

I've been leaving food for her (under the bed) and I tossed in a few of her toys. I will occasionally hear the  bock-bock-bock of a catnip chicken toy I did not realize (until 3 am the second night) came with sound effects, so at least I know she's entertaining herself under there. She's slowly warming up to me, I think.  She's started joining me for breakfast in the kitchen each morning and lets me pet her as long as I don't try any funny business like putting her in my lap.

  

Abigail not feeling too sure about any of this

  

Clara is doing her part to reinforce all the kitten stereotypes, chasing her tail, knocking any damn thing into the bathroom sink I deign to leave on the counter, attacking my toes at 3am. And posing for pictures.  So. Many. Pictures. 

Thank you Jen for clipping those claws before releasing her to me, but she's going to need a pawdicure again  pretty soon. 

Even before Abigail and Clara adopted me, I had decided to leave my Christmas tree up, lights and all, until I'm able to share a real holiday meal with the kids. I'm pretty sure Clara thinks I did this for her. (Don't tell!) If I'm known as that lady with the Christmas tree, so be it. I light my fake tree, and I ignite my fake fireplace, and I watch my kitten shimmy up the tree and eat my ornaments and something, at least for today, is right with the world. 

                                          

Now I can't take it down!

RIP, Zoet

I've come to realize I don’t actually post much anymore. But I keep it because it seems like at the very least I need a place to eulogize current and future pets. And the time has come that I have had to say goodbye to Zoet.

And maybe some day I’ll be travelling again. God, I miss travelling. Then I can inundate you with pretty landscapes, too.

But to Zoet. I hope she had as much fun in her last decade (she actually only had 1.4 of them anyway) with me as I did with her. It was only in retrospect that I realized I was trying to fit a dog-shaped peg into the Tom-shaped hole in my heart, but she became my shadow, and never said no to a car ride, even if that car ride was five minutes down the road to the vet, of which there were many. I might have been gone all day at the Dana; or I might have gone into the cellar to get a can of tomatoes, but each reunion was met with happy barks and jumps and great relief that I hadn't left forever. That kind of enthusiasm is addictive.

Great Falls National Park

It was during routine bloodwork prior to dental surgery that we found out she had something wrong with her liver; we never fully identified it but were able to control it for the most part with medicine. And no this was not related to the little weed Thing That Happened. And it only now occurs to me that she never did have that dental surgery.

When I originally moved to Virginia she stayed behind in Medford with 96 until I was settled in and back from Croatia (October 2019) but she joined me for that drive home from Boston. She very much loved our recent move to Springfield, VA, where she once again had a yard with plenty to smell, as by that point her vision and hearing were both failing, but her snoot remained astute.

Another very odd mystery I never solved is that, once she 

everyone's got a hobby

moved to Virginia, she never barked. Never, not ever, not even once. And for people familiar with Zoet's ... enthusiasm (and I'm looking at you and you know who you are, you) ... will be surprised to hear this. The only theory I've come up with is that once she moved to the Alexandria apartment she didn't feel territorial like she did when she lived next door to the Fells. She'd see a dog on a leash walk in front of the house, and begin barking at it there, and continue barking all the while running through the living room to the back of the house, up onto the back of the couch, to continue the coversation, on the off chance the dog walked into the woods through the easement adjacent to the house. And then repeat when her sniffer would sniff out dogs exiting after their walks. Okay, it was loud.

Of course most of this last year has been spent in isolation, which in the early days was a struggle for both of us. But once national and state parks reopened for visitors we devised a schedule to visit as many as often as we could. She even, at 14 years of age, learned that she loved swimming. My car still has that wet, old dog smell.

As these last months and weeks dragged on, though, I could see her decline almost daily. She eventually went into diapers (which, I’m sorry but she’s cute!) and even walks around the complex became too much for her.  I’m glad I had a little carriage to bring her outside, so she could ride in comfort to wherever looked like it had a worthwhile step-to-sniff ratio.

It became obvious late on her last day that she needed to let go; while I’m pretty sure she was in no discomfort I wanted to make things as easy as I could for her. I like to think I’m the last thing she saw before she crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. I think Tom's beloved Maxwell will provide her a warm welcome, even if Ada is curled up in a corner hissing at her and Scruffy runs upstairs. Assuming heaven has an upstairs.

RIP Zoet. You will be missed. You already are.

Come in and Laugh at Me

So. I had a little adventure the other day. Zoet and I are doing a pretty good job staying isolated, but we take the occasional day trip. enmasked and socially distanced, of course. All I wanted was a damned scenic drive home. Then this happened, as told to my family's group text. Notwithstanding Jack's Samsung that makes us all green, he's worth a follow if you're a Twitter user.

And then, as you're pulling the U-turn as instructed, you'll wonder if you're supposed to use your blinker because there's no one else around except a passel of policemen, and drive the next 1000 feet looking for another blue light in the rearview mirror.

In case you're wondering what's so special about Great Falls National Park, here's part of it: