In Tonight's Episode ...

Tonight, in a very special episode of "Linda, No One Cares About This Like You Do" ...

Boston to East Meadow, round trip, one tank of gas. Boom.

Family Weekend, or ...

I've been excited for weeks to join 96 at Sarah Lawrence for Parents Weekend. Technically, it was Family Weekend but I made an agreement with 98 that if he had no missed homework and no failed grades this term he could stay home by himself. So Parent Weekend it was.

I get there and 96 and I go to register. They wanted thirty five dollars (THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS!) so I could sit through a welcome message from President Karen Lawrence (no relation), followed by the keynote speaker who was an SLC parent, then "lunch under the tent" which I'm sure was lovely, and finally an afternoon of panel presentations-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z. No thank you.

If I'm driving four hours to my son's school, I want to hang with my kid. He's an actual human being now. Civilized and everything! So we spent the day in The City instead.

After arriving at Grand Central Station our first stop was the 9/11 memorial. It was a humbling experience, and I felt very, very small compared to the enormity of what happened that day. We were still on Kwaj at the time, but Tom's New York roots ran deep.

Someone needs to invent a word that means taller than tall to describe the new building. It is in fact the biggest building I have ever seen. I liked the view up from the very base of the building. And Rahm Emanuel can bite it if he thinks that's "just" an antenna on top and shouldn't be included in the measurement. It's not. The end.

We wound our way through The City and ended up at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where we were meeting up with another SLC family with the same boredom threshold as us, who also spent Parent Day in the city. The cafeteria was inside the museum, and to get there we needed to pay admission. $25 each, according to the sign over the cashier.

Record scratch.

My son, the city slicker, informed me that those admission rates museums charge are really just "suggestions" and we didn't actually need to pay $25 per person to walk back to the cafeteria. Fully expecting to be laughed at, or at least trashed on Facebook as that cheap-o Bostonian who refused to pay admission, I explained that we were only going to the cafeteria and so here's a dollar. The ticket person could not have been nicer about it, and gave us our lapel stickers identifying us as full fledged museum visitors and we were on our way. Expecting to pass a broom closet, an electrical box, and the service elevator en route to the cafeteria, imagine my surprise when we actually had to wander through the Middle Ages armor and weaponry exhibit to get to our destination.

Mortified that I had only paid a buck (for the two of us! Not even a dollar each! A dollar total!) for the experience, I thought maybe I shield my eyes as I walked past. But I couldn't resist a peek. The cafeteria assuaged my guilt somewhat by charging me $15.25 for two oj's and a cupcake.

Hunting Knive Combined with Wheellock Pistol, 
etched with a calendar for the years 1529-34.
World's first Swiss Army  knife

               

H and 96

So the plan is another weekend in New York with a daylong visit to the Met in my future, at which time I promise to gladly and enthusiastically pay full freight.

Northern Darks

Way to turn viewing the Northern Lights in Boston into something that doesn't happen every day, Linda. It goes something like this:

Me: "Hey, 98, let's go view the Northern Lights tonight. They don't usually come this far south."
98: Grumble, grumble, grumble
Me: Coax and coerce
98: "Okay, but I reserve the right to pitch a fit the next time you ask me to go someplace"
Me: "Deal"

The sign, according to 98, we should have read
before we began our hike. 

I have a place I usually go for night viewing of sky events. Tom and I saw Hale-Bopp at Halibut Point in Rockport, which is as far out on the Rockport peninsula as you can go. But it takes about an hour to get there, especially at night, with the curvy, narrow roads. And I wasn't willing to graciously accept the "OMGMOMThisIsSooooooLame" if the light were anything less than magical, and then have an hour ride home after that, so Halibut Point was out. We opted instead to hike an easy hike to Wright's Tower, right here in the Middlesex Fells. It's about a mile from the house, and about a quarter of a mile into the woods, so we drove to the little parking lot they maintain that holds about 8 cars.

What I hadn't mentioned to 98 was that I had only done this hike a couple of times, and probably not in 10 years, and never at night. I checked a map to get a vague notion of where we were going. And I did know there was a trail leading up to the tower. Flashlight in hand, we got there about 8:45, well after dark. We headed out, and, in my defense, only made one wrong turn. When it became clear I could no longer hide the fact that I had no idea where we were, we turned around, with minimal audible grumbling from 98.

Just about the time 98 was going to steal my flashlight and push me off the next ledge, we bumped into a couple of young guys backpacking up to the tower to see the lights, too. "Hey, are you lost? At least you had the good sense to bring a flashlight. Follow us." Turns out they were both studying to be park rangers, and didn't have a flashlight! They did remember their beers, at least. Not sure what we were getting into, the four of us continued on the trail to the tower. Which was locked, of course.

Norther Darks
Aurora Bor-e-dark-is

Between the light pollution and the trees towering above us, there was not a single northern light to be seen. Not an electromagnetic wave. Not even static electricity. Busted.

Confident we can find our way back down alone, we left the boys at the tower base and head back to the car. If only that were the end of the story.

Nope. There's a whole chapter two.

We get back to the car and head to the parking lot exit, only to find the gate has been shut and locked by Department of Conservation and Recreation. We back up to the entrance, and no good, that's locked, too. I wasn't even going to drive the damn car, but it was jussssst far enough and I was jusssst lazy enough to justify it. So I pull out the cell phone, with which I was going to take epic photos of the northern lights, and call the Medford police. who advise me to call State Police, who advised me to call DCR, who I know won't be open for business, So I just asked my question: If I leave the car here and walk home, will it be towed when I come back in the morning? Turns out it won't be towed, so I leave (98 is long gone, in case you're wondering) and walk the mile or so home. If only that were the end of the story.

Nope. There's a whole chapter three.

I left the house at about 8:15 this morning with the dog to go get the car. When I was about halfway there the phone rings, and it's 98, which is odd because he's not normally awake at 8:30 in the morning on a Saturday morning. Little did I know that leaving a car overnight in a parking lot at a wilderness area triggers certain ... events. AKA search party. Oops.

A state trooper, getting no answer to the bell or knocking or announcing his presence, had let himself in through the door I had left ajar (I was only going to be gone a few minutes) and found his way to a sleeping 98's room, "Where are you, Mom? There a police officer in my room wondering where you are." Oops.

The officer arrived at my car at the same time I did. He brought me up to speed on the situation. As I now understand it, if a car is left overnight in a lot by a large wilderness area they begin with the assumption that the occupants are lost in the woods and commence a search. While the trooper notified DCR I was okay and accounted for, I waited for the search party (I met a DCR ranger named Mike) to return to the lot.  I apologized profusely to the officer and the ranger, and of course took their pictures. I have a blog, yo.

98 says I'm not allowed to leave the house after dark ever again.

The Equipment

The Manpower (some of these guys were camera shy!)

Seriously, though, I want very much to thank the Massachusetts State Police out of the Medford barracks and the Department of Conservation and Recreation, responsible for maintaining the Middlesex Fells, for making such efforts to ensure my and all Massachusetts residents' and visitors' safety.

Hot Peppers for a Hot Day

This recipe is a family favorite. We love spicy food on a hot day.  Ninety-six is at a concert tonight and doesn't even mind missing it, though, because he says it's better as leftovers the next day. I cannot say I disagree.

Grow.

Harvest.

Prep. Don't forget the gloves. And don't forget to take the gloves off before
you scratch somewhere. This is important. Take my word for it.

Layers.

Bake
.

Enjoy! Be sure to save some room because you'll also have to have a bowl of
  Breyer's Summer Berry Cobbler ice cream. With jimmies.
Not just any jimmies. These jimmies.

Chile Relleno Casserole

1# fresh peppers (hot or sweet or a mix of both)

1-2 large tomatoes

12 oz jack or cheddar cheese

2 eggs

1 1/2 c flour

1 c half-and-half

• Preheat oven to 350
• Slice the peppers open and remove the seeds. Set aside.
• Slice the tomatoes and remove the core and seeds. Set aside.
• Grate the cheese. Set aside.
• Place the eggs, flour and half-and-half in the bowl of a food processor and pulse briefly until blended and smooth.
• Pour about 1/2 cup of batter in the bottom of a lightly greased 8 x 8 pan. Top with a layer of peppers, cut side up. Generously sprinkle with 1/3 of the cheese. Pour 1/3 of remaining batter over cheese. Repeat pepper and cheese layers and pour remaining batter over. Top with tomatoes and remaining cheese. Bake at 350℉ until browned and bubbly and peppers are soft when pierced with a knife, about 1 hour. 

The Story of Momo

Let's start with a few stipulations: I am not a crackpot. I am quirky, maybe. And a little bit stiff sometimes. And not unlike lobster, I am an acquired taste. But I am not a crackpot.

Okay then.

How many times did I hear it? With every belly rub I'd give Neko, with every cold cut slice I'd bring C fresh from the deli, Tom would laugh, and say, "If I ever come back, Linda, I want to be one of your cats." Cats live a pretty high life in the Gentile household.

So, I don't know if you all remember the time frame, but Tom died on February 7, 2010. C had been sick for months at that point, and he died some 3 months later, on May 13. It was a Thursday. Imagine my surprise, then, when a friend posted on Facebook that Saturday that, because of allergies, a friend of his was going to have to return her kitten to the shelter if she couldn't find a new home for her. A little white female kitten with smudges of grey on the top of her head and her rump. Her name was Momo, "little peach." She'd come complete with food, carrier, and was up-to-date with her shots and papers. The timing was entirely too serendipitous to resist. While I was ready to be a family of two boys, three cats and no dogs (yet), maybe my blog had other plans for me. We took Momo and remained a family of  22 legs, including mine.

Some time later (okay, months later. Filing is not my forte, okay?) I was filing away her paperwork, and I glanced over the shots ... the physical attributes ... and my eyes fell on her dob: February 8, 2010. "If I ever come back, Linda, I want to be one of your cats."

This incarnation likes sports more than the previous one ...

... but they both love their naps.

Ode to Eagles

Guest Blogger: Judy N.

Today is a tale

Of some fine young men,

Together like this,

Not soon seen again.

Busy they've been since

Their first day in school,

Never wasting time

Trying to be cool.

Deemed gentle and kind,

Deep and artistic,

Never were they just

A teenage statistic.

There's theatre and jazz

And Kairos and tech,

And Model UN

Plus crew up on deck.

But please don't dare think

They just cared for fun,

Grades mostly came first;

No day in the sun.

For those unconvinced,

Just look at this list.

Their smarts got them here --

Let others use fists!

Stonehill and Fordham

And Vanderbilt too,

Connecticut, Vermont,

Providence, phew!

One of them didn't

Spend time on the fence,

Right from the start

It's been Sarah Lawrence.

RIT, MIT ...

Not bad, don't you think?

Holy Cross, Bennington,

They all have a link

Not cheap are these schools --

Cost a payola!

But happy he'll be

Off at Loyola.

And last but not least,

A heck of a guy,

Sure to succeed at

WPI.

Diapers to tuxes,

"Too fast, God!" we say,

But change not a thing

To be here today.

Our hearts filled with love,

Our glass to the sky --

"To Eagles that soar

And to BC High!"

Okay, I'll Say It

Okay, I'll say it: Tom was impossible to buy for. Im. Poss. Ible. Anything he wanted, he'd just go buy. Anything he didn't have, well, he didn't want. Thankyouverymuch.

I completely gave up on birthday presents, and for those he mostly got memories. Memories, heh, heh.

But Christmas. Oy, the Christmas presents. The beseeching "Please like it" looks. The shrugged shoulders and the "What did you get this for?" look in return. The hurt feelings. The money.

First were the wind chimes. Very manly, soldered wind chimes. But they were wind chimes. And he didn't want them. He hung them briefly over the deck. And by briefly I mean until the first cookout. Then they came down and went back in the box, down in the bottom drawer, until I wasn't looking and they got put into the Goodwill box.

And the shirts. Cotton shirts; blends; plains, prints, plaids. Aloha shirts. There was that one White Castle shirt he liked to wear. It was five bucks at Kohl's, but he liked it, so I felt validated.

He often compared the best and worst presents I ever gave him: his favorite was a yellow fiberglass ladder to replace a rickety wooden one I was afraid he'd kill himself falling off of (so that was more a present for me than him, but he didn't have to know that); and those dribble hoses. Yes, hoseS, plural, because if you need a dribble hose for your garden, wouldn't two really be better? Think of all that time not spent watering the garden. Think of all that time you don't have to spend on a quiet, leisurely activity, freeing you up to, well, clean the cellar, change the oil, listen to kids bicker over the tv ... ohhhhhhh! Every time he'd look at those dribble hoses hanging from hooks in the garage he's shake his head, and I know he was thinking, "What the heck were you thinking, Linda?" Correction: He didn't think it, he said it out loud.

Making room in the garage this weekend I put a whole lotta stuff on the curb with a sign marked "free." There were the skis we bought weeks before I found out I was pregnant with 96. At 40 and pregnant, skiing was not on the calendar that winter. Forty one and pregnant, ditto. Then the whole, "no cross country ski trails in the Marshall Islands" thing, and the skis and poles all ended up first in the rafters of the garage and then at the curb along with the dribble hoses. And the bikes. Bikes of every size and color, all with rusted chains and two flat tires. Gone to the curb. And about 30 pounds of birdseed dating back to the days when this blog could have been called twoboyssixcats, since bird feeders in a backyard of a house with a majority population of cats just seems mean. And sleds. All on the curb, all marked free. All taken by people who had a use for them. And I don't care if the "use" is to use them or to sell them or to melt them down for scrap metal. As long as they're out of my garage. All found new homes where they were wanted. Well, almost all.

Shut up, Tom. You did not just say "I told you so."

Now For Something Completely Different

Dear Westboro Baptist Church:

Assuming the news reports are true and accurate, I am truly sorry that Fred Phelps is so sick and lying near death.

I hope no one protests at Fred Phelps’ funeral. Because far from worshiping the dead, a funeral is really a gift for the living. We have funerals to comfort each other, to share happy memories (and yes, even sad ones), and to give thanks to a benevolent God for the grace of having had our loved one in our lives for however long we did. And after my husband Tom's funeral we had barbecue  and kickass Kickass Cupcakes. 

When a person dies, all those left behind really want to do is mourn the loss of their loved ones in peace. Just like you’d like to do with Fred, but are considering not doing so because of potential protests, when that time comes.   Rest assured: I have no intention of protesting at his funeral. 

I’ve never actually been to a funeral protest. I guess I almost went to one once, when I’d heard that you might be protesting at the funeral of one of the Boston Marathon bombing victims. The church was just a couple of blocks from my house so that morning I walked by, saw through some very tight security that your group wasn’t there and went on my way and let the family grieve in peace. Because I didn't know her and I didn't belong there any more than you did. 

All the Campbell family wanted to do was mourn the loss of their beloved Krystle. 

Matthew Shepard’s parents loved their son; they and his family and friends were devastated by his violent death. I bet all they wanted was to grieve in peace. 

Elizabeth Edwards? Really? I suppose she deserved your contempt posthumously because … wait a minute, I’m going to need you to explain to me again why you wouldn’t let her children grieve in peace. 

And you realize that that tornado was climate change, right? Not God’s wrath rained down upon Oklahoma because of the anal sex or  the marriage equality or even the lesbians. Not any more than it was God’s wrath rained down upon Oklahoma because a group from a neighboring state spews hateful speech during things like mass shootings, tornadoes and funerals. Which it wasn’t, even though you do. 

Now, the next time you read in the paper that an Iraq war hero dies, or a 9-year-old girl is assassinated by a bullet meant for a politician, and someone says, “Hey, let’s go protest at that funeral and it’s an opportunity for us to make sure that everyone knows God we hate the fags” I hope your response is, “No thanks, but I'm thinking barbecue sounds pretty good right about now.”

Signed, Linda