Before and After

Before

Once upon a time we had a tree. It was a lovely tree. A sugar maple. But all spring, summer and fall, every time there was a breeze, it interfered with our satellite tv. But it was a fine tree, so it stayed. Even though every spring it dripped sap on my car, and all its pollen stuck to the sap, making my pretty blue-green car a blotchy, hideous shade of neon chartreuse. And the tree blocked all sun from the lawn, so not even shade-loving grass would grow there. You know what grew there? Dandelions. Dandelions and, well, that was about it.

Remember the little plumbing episode I had a few months ago? It turned out Mr. Maple had inched his roots in to the exit pipe. So my plumber, Mike, explained to me that I should expect to have to snake the pipe about once a year or so to the tune of $200 a visit, unless the tree came down.

This tree was planted probably 30 years ago by my lovely across-the-street neighbor, Dan, who was besties with the previous owner. I went back and forth about taking the tree down. It was really a perfectly healthy, if inconvenient tree.  I even consulted Dan, a retired plumber, who gave his blessing, and his professional advice.

And so the tree came down. I figured while I was at it, I'd take down a pine tree that for years has been leaning evermore into the overhead wires that feed my entire neighborhood. I knew it would have to come down some day, and the guy was here today, so what the heck. Add that to the bill, please.

And then I discovered my (potentially) beautiful, sunny front lawn. But I couldn't put in a whole lawn from the ground up (heh) by myself, so I hired a guy. Who hires guys who apparently never pee, but that's another story.

I figured if I'm getting a lawn, I might as well irrigate. And if I'm getting the front done, the back will only look worse by comparison, so let's do the back, too. And think how much nicer everything will look with new foundation plantings instead of those boring yews. And you know what I've always wanted? An irrigated garden. (I even got Tom some of those dribble hoses for Christmas one year, which was an utter failure, as that meant having to disconnect the hose every time we finished with it, or driving over the hose each time we moved the cars.) Since I'm putting the irrigation system in the back anyway, I might as well swing one extra arm around the garage and do the garden, too. Yes, this is that garden, the one my neighbor actually owns but is mine to use as I please in perpetuity because three-owners-ago neighbor was an ass who thought she could mess with Tom Gentile's garden. Yeah, she's gone now.  Good riddance.

After

So long and short, I: cut down two trees, put in a 6-zone irrigation system, mulched and sodded the front yard and the back yard, put in new foundation shrubs and got rid of a whole pile of waste wood from the back yard.

BUT I saved two hundred Washingtons in the mix.

So if you Google ...

"2.06m results in .19 secs"

Yeah, she's fine. Dr. Zanotti explained that the chemical and dose is similar to a heartworm treatment.   So we may even save a few bucks at her next checkup.

We're clearly not the first, and won't be the last.  I'm okay with not spending $65 to contact the ASPCA Poison Control Center (which is where the regular poison control center directed me).

Tom was many things ...

... but a procrastinator he was not.

The one thing he put off first for months and then for years was making a will. Oh, we eventually did.   But not because we got married.   Not because we had a baby.   Not because we had a second baby.   We finally got on the “gotta have a will” bandwagon when we were moving to Kwaj.   And when I say “because we were moving to Kwaj” I mean, because our shipment was on the barge, the house was empty and our plane tickets were in our hands.

So I called the lawyer, and got the papers all drawn up, and stored them neatly in our carry-on.   But we still hadn’t actually had them signed.   Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit, we got on a plane, all four of us, intestate, that August in 1998.   If the plane had gone down, the court would have done whatever it is the court does, and taken whatever it takes of our holdings -- this being pre-Kwaj probably a cool three figures.

Fortunately, this was only a shuttle to JFK, where we’d say our goodbye’s to Tom’s clan.  We made it safe and sound.   And continued procrastinating.

So our last day on Long Island we finally got in the car and just drove around until we found a notary sign in a window.  It was an independently-owned copier place, and they were open (but quiet) that Saturday, so we had to wait there until she had her next customers.   We wrangled these two total strangers, Kathryn E. Wansor and Geraldine Scharf, to witness our signatures. (I only mention their names in case they ever Google themselves. What a hoot that would be!)

And there we were, ready to hop on the plane or onto a roller coaster or a Formula One racecar with a clear conscience. Estate stuff: done.

Fast forward to February 2010. Indeed, Tom was not much of a procrastinator, and every other detail of our fiscal life has been tracked and documented and worked out and taken care of. After Tom died, everything was done and fell into place like dominoes. I was the joint owner where I needed to be the joint owner. I was the beneficiary when I needed to be the beneficiary. Proxies, powers-of-attorney – everything was in order. I’ve barely had to sign a piece of paper to straighten out necessary paperwork, and certainly I haven’t had to go into a probate courtroom.   Tom made sure everything was taken care of for me. Because Tom was Tom.

So of course it took me fifteen months to get my new will in order.  There I was this morning in the attorney’s office, and it hit me like a steel-toed-boot in the stomach. I’m signing my Last Will and Testament, and I’m not leaving everything to Tom.

That’s when I remembered the scramble to get that will stuff done in 1998. And that opened a floodgate of memories: the memories that only Tom and I shared. Not the quirky-kid stories, or the you-won’t-believe-what-an-ass-my-spouse-is-so-I-have-to-tell-you-this stories. I mean the nanomemories that it wouldn’t even occur to me to share because, well, they’re private.  And a lot of them are boring as all get out.

But now I’m the only person on the face of the earth that holds those memories, and that made signing my new will this morning just about the saddest moment of my life.

May 10

Our wedding gift from Laura still hangs over my bed

I likely met Tom 17 years ago today. To. The. Hour.  Dinner at Bertucci's in Central Square, so I'm thinking we met at 6pm?  No, I wasn't watching the clock all day, waiting for the moment. But I'm about ready to take dinner out of the oven, and I happened to notice the time.

Not like driving home from Connecticut one night (it was my friend Laura's birthday and I think we had dinner in Mystic).  We were in the Sundance, and my phone number at Harvard (with 5-digit dialing) was 5-8250. And yes, I nearly drove off the road, in the middle of the night, watching  for the odometer to turn 58,250 miles.

FYI: Laura is an astounding craftsperson and artist. Check out her website!

Ah, Mother's Day. Good Times, Good Times

To fully appreciate the story, you have to understand that on Kwaj, a lot of the menfolk went to work every day on another island, Roi-Namur.   It was about a 40 mile commute: a quick plane ride most days.   That is, if the windshield doesn't fall out on landing, like it did Tom's very first day of work in August of '98.  There followed  a scramble of plane inspections and months of boatrides and abbreviated workdays because of the 3-hour commute each way.   But usually, the guys (it was mostly husbands at least in my circle of friends) all got back on-island at the same time, all hopped on their bikes at the airport and walked in their respective front doors within minutes of landing.   It was pretty predictable.

So it was the day before Mother's Day in '99 (the workweek was Tuesday through Saturday, to maximize overlapping office hours with CONUS [Continental US]). I heard the plane come in, and got supper on the table, expecting Tom any minute. Minutes ticked away, no Tom. More time passed, and still no husband walking through the door.   "Oh, yeah. Tomorrow's Mother's Day. He's probably stopped off to buy me something. What a great guy," I thought to myself (because my thought bubbles are always grammatically structured sentences.)  This, even though I had known this man some number of years already, and really should have known better.  Eventually he walked through the door, with no gift hiding under his arm, and I surmised he dropped it at a friend's house on the way home. Cute.

He played it totally cool, even though I knew something was up, and I knew he knew I knew something was up. Cool as a cucumber.

So Saturday night morphs into Sunday morning, and here I am, surrounded by my little family on my first Mother's Day on Kwaj. Breakfast comes, breakfast goes.   Nothing.   We pass the morning, and I begin to wonder just when my dear, sweet husband is going to retrieve the gift from the friend's house to give me.   Lunch.   Nothing.   I start getting a little concerned, and I guess I can admit now that my half of our conversation might have gotten a bit, well, let's call it "curt" by mid-afternoon.

Eventually my -- okay -- total bitchiness gets the better of him, and he snaps at me. "What the hell bug flew up your ass today?" he inquires.   (Can't you just hear him?)  "You ... forgot ... sniff, sniff, ... Motherrrr's Daaaaaaay!" I wept, running up the stairs.

I never did find out why Tom was those few minutes late that day.   Maybe he had a flat, or his chain slipped, or he was talking with a friend before leaving for home; I don't know.    I know he felt just awful, and he went to 1010 (the store) and got me a very nice card and a bottle of expensive wine.    I drank the wine, and I probably didn't share with him.

Then he got onto the internet, making his first online purchase that night.   And that, children, is how Momma got those pretty diamond and sapphire earrings.

 ________________________________________________________________________

My membership dues:

Agent 96 in November 1996 - 1 month old

Agent 98 in March 1998 - 1 month old