Revelations

I just had an epiphany that is too revelatory not to share. If this is something every 23-year-old has figured out and I’m just late to the game, forgive me. 

I say this with sincerity and for real: I carry a lot of shame. I have and continue to carry lifelong guilt. Over the years I’ve been a daughter, a friend, a sister, cousin, niece, aunt or coworker and more. I’ve stepped on a lot of toes.

With steel in the toes of my shoes. 

I’ve never been able to shed the heaviest of this guilt, and I too easily shed the smaller guilts of a harsh look or a light left on. I’m an enigma.

Despite years - decades, really — of psychological and medical interventions, I have never been able to fully shed some of the shame. In true chicken-and-egg fashion  I’ll never know which came first: shame or depression. I’ve honestly given up on forgiving myself, and have simply accepted that this that the heaviest of that shame will be with me for the rest of my life. It occurred to me that problem isn’t the guilt; the problem was that I was simply trying to do the impossible. For simplicity’s sake let’s say it was turn back time so as to not do the deed and to not feel the feeling in the first place. Logical.

But from my 2026 vantage point (I just turned 70 so maybe that’s it?) I have so many happy and sad memories with so many people I love that I’ve known since birth, and others that I met last week. Would I want to erase those memories too? Those people and their favorite memories? Maybe we can work something out.

Instead of being a backpack loaded with a week’s supplies for the entire bunker, why don’t I just hang onto the receipt? I can crumple the receipt and toss it in the trunk.  It’s proof I was there. There’s a record, if anyone asks. Sure, I carry it everywhere I go, but at no cost to me. Crumpled up, jammed into the spare tire well with me none the wiser. It will never hurt anyone’s feelings; it will never cause an accident. It’s the history that made me the person that made those memories with those loved ones. By the time anyone finds it it will be illegible and drenched in oil drippings and they’ll toss it in the rubbish and by that point I’ll be long gone.

One take.

It's Cicada O'Clock Somewhere

Originally published in May 2021

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.

Once upon a time Scruffy, an adventurer by nature, learned that if he wanted to get in the house and we didn't respond to his meows at the back door, he could climb up to the treehouse, jump onto the sunroom porch, and meow at my bedroom window and eventually someone would respond.

Scruffy (the black cat)
with Pixel (who's just made the realization, "Oooh, I like this idea")

He's been doing this for ages. I have even gotten phone calls from neighbors on two different occasions: "Linda, that black cat is up on the roof again. My husband's worried about him," went one. "I just love watching that cat up on the roof!" went the other.  It gets confusing for poor, neglected-at-the-back-door Scruffy, though, because the air conditioner goes in one window. When there's no air conditioner in, I let him in through that window. But when the air conditioner's in, I have to remove the screen from the other window that faces the roof and let him in that way. It's a learning curve twice a year, every year.

So today I hear the meow and head to the window. I'm not the only one who heard the meow.

Guess who now thinks the bedroom window is the most efficient way in AND out of the house.

Originally published in 2013

A Toast to the Bride & Groom

 My toast is a two-parter:

First, I so wish Tom were here today; I know he would have loved Hannah's smarts and her sparkle. And he'd be crazy proud of you, David. So first, a toast to Tom.

But I want to tell a Tom story from back in the early days of our marriage, when we were still starry eyed newlyweds whose default response to any gift for any occasion hadn't yet devolved to "Whydja get me that?" or the dreaded "Look what I just bought..." spoken a day before someone's birthday. 

Giftwise, possibly the most offbase I ever was (worse than the dribble hoses, Tom would agree, but I still think the dribble hoses were a good idea) was the time I made him a little wallet card with his favorite quote on it. I'd paid like $3 a sheet for the fancy paper at Michael's, and I worked on the calligraphy for literal weeks. I even put little blue butterflies in one corner.  He opened the small gift  box, expecting maybe a tietack?. But he looked at the card, and he looked at me, and from somewhere he found some words -- "Thank you, Linda; this is very nice. But I am never going to carry this in my wallet." And that little card went into in his top dresser drawer, but right there in a spot where I know he saw it every day, and that thought still makes me smile.

Helen Keller had written an essay I think around 1900, late in her studies or shortly after earning her degree from Radcliffe, called Optimism. Marriage requires a fair bit of optimism, and over a lifetime you'll have maybe six big decisions like Should we buy this house or Do you wanna move for my new job ... followed by months and years of cleaning underneath the toilet seat and bellyaching that someone put the good knife in the dishwasher again. Or so I've heard.

So while Helen Keller wasn't talking about MY marriage when she wrote it, I'm talking about YOURS when I tell you that she shared that "I long to accomplish a great and noble task; but it is my chief duty and joy to accomplish humble tasks as though they were great and noble ... The world is moved along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of the tiny pushes of each honest worker."

To David & Hannah. I love you both. Welcome to married life.

I May Not Have Mentioned ...

... or I may have mentioned it 73 times since Spring, but 96 graduated from BC High this past weekend. Now that he's officially an alum I'm thinking a lot about how he was born old for his age.

"Never wake a sleeping baybee!" they'd tell me. And I'm proud to say I followed this sage advice even when my eleven-day-old was sleeping through the night.

By first grade he had decided that he was too old to have his mom kiss him goodbye at the school door -- we lived across the street and there was no privacy to be found behind the tinted windows of a private vehicle. Heck, there were no private vehicles anyway, but he knew he was too big to kiss his mom in public. "You can't kiss me anymore, mom. But you can shake my hand when you drop me off at school." Oh, thanks, kid. Way to establish a reputation as a warm and nurturing mother of young children among my circle of friends, comprised almost exclusively of other mothers of young children who likely made a daily habit of kissing their children, and had probably never bid their children Godspeed with a shake of the hand.

Then there was that summer before seventh grade. We lived north of Boston, and BC High was south of Boston, about a 45 minute train ride. The saving grace was that he could do it by train without needing to make any changes or connections. Heck, he wouldn't even have to cross a street. In at Davis (usually after a quick kiss and an "I love you Mom"  to make up for lost time and assuage a guilty conscience, I like to think); out at JFK, across the footbridge, and bam, he's there. So we did, ahem, a few practice rides during that summer of 2008. Eventually 96 put his foot down, announcing, "I know how to do this, mom. I don't need any more practice. Sheesh." So I had to admit that the dry runs were for my benefit, not actually for his. Maybe a month after school started he got home a little later than I had come to expect. He had decided to experiment with other routes home and had discovered the Orange Line and Sullivan Station and a whole series of bus route numbers that even now I don't know to where they go and on which I have never ridden.

Now it's all  cigars and colleges and California and he's still old for his age.

Ninety-Six is so close to going off to college. Now I'm beginning to panic about all that wisdom and maternal crap I'm supposed to send him off with. What if I've forgotten something?

Ironing Shirts: Here a helpful little mnemonic to help you remember: CYCSFSBOCOSFOSBPFFB. An easy way to remember Collar, Yoke, Cuff, Sleeve Front, Sleeve Back, Other Cuff, Other Sleeve Front, Other Sleeve Back, Front, Front, Back. Better yet, buy blends.

Cooking: No matter the recipe, double the herbs and spices. Recipes are written for normal people; you're a Gentile, man. Double the herbs and spices.

Hearbreak: I know you're going to get your heart broken, maybe probably even more than once. I'm not exactly a pro in area of grace in the face of heartbreak, but I really do have some knowlege to impart on this score. First, yes, it sucks. Bad. You literally feel like your heart is breaking. Because it is. But I promise, if you just breathe -- just breathe -- it will be better in the morning. It'll still hurt, but tomorrow it will hurt less. I promise. Heck, it will hurt less in an hour. Just remember to breathe slow cleansing breaths: Innnnnnn through the nose; ouuuuuuut through the mouth .... Innnnnnn through the nose; ouuuuuuut through the mouth.

In Tonight's Episode ...

In tonight's episode of "Linda, We Don't Care" ...

How did this happen?

Originally published in January 2016

How did this little baby grow to become this young man? 98 turned 18 -- 18! -- the other day.

 

This was my first day exploring Þhingvellir (Þ pronounced "th") National Park. It was also the most blue sky I saw until I was on my way to the airport going home. That's Europe on my left, and North America on my right

A Very Gentile Holiday 2024

Originally published in  Dec 2022

A very Gentile holiday season to you!  

Well, that was a year and then some. Of course I have to start with the event of the season, David and Hannah's June wedding at her parents' home in the northern Chicago suburbs. Their wedding day was perfect, falling  towards the end of the broods XIII and XIX  cicada emergence, which last occurred synchronously in 1803 (each brood sticking to its own 13-17 year schedule). It was a lovely service (the wedding, I mean, not the cicadas but the cicadas were cool too) performed by the couple's dear friend and former professor and advisor at Sarah Lawrence, Mike Siff.  They honeymooned in Barcelona & Sevilla afterwards and brought home a couple of cases of ... COVID. They were fully vaxxed and their symptoms were shortlived, thank goodness.

Geof returned to Greece for the summer, but during his hiatus stateside bought a house an hour outside Houston. He still splits his work time between  Thessaloniki, Greece and Medford, OR (the synchronicity of which always makes me smile) but for winter 2025 will be working in Ancona, about a 3-hour drive from Rome on the Italian Adriatic . Some life!

Clara had the most uneventful year of all of us, and Abigail lived pretty large by comparison.  Originally feral, she never had much time for toys and is not very playful. I left a box by the front door to recycle but before I had a chance to (who am I kidding? We both know it was at least a week later and I just hadn't bothered moving 3 feet into the hallway to be picked up) Abigail discovered the concept of The Box. Originally she just loved sitting in The Box, but by some fluke she noticed her tail in there. She put 2 and 2 together, and came to the very logical conclusion that chasing her tail was only allowed in The Box. So a couple of times a day she'd get up from her nap, saunter over to The Box, do a lap or two with her tail, then return to  what she was doing like she was punching back onto the clock after lunch. This went on for weeks until tragedy struck, and the cleaner recycled The Box. I did my best to replace it (I even wrote Do Not Discard in sharpie on a new one) but like a hamster with the wrong markings she was not fooled, and our lives are all a little emptier without The Box. Poor Abigail had most of her teeth extracted in November.  FIV+ kitties are particularly susceptible to infections, and gums are a particularly vulnerable spot, and so the teeth had to go. She had a couple of low energy days, which Clara took as an invitation to exert dominance, followed by a full ten days of hissing and swatting on both sides before the balance of power returned, and peace reigns once again at The Home.

Wishing you a wonderful and prosperous new year. See you in 2025?

Love, Linda

96 & Dr. Ombré. Yes, that’s a cicada on her dress

98, Linda, Dr. O, 96

If I have a lap, Clara is in it

Abigail's action shot

David Gentile & Hannah Bates: 318 Rindge Ave #205, Cambridge, MA 02140

Geof Gentile: 275 Road 66121 Dayton, TX 77535

Linda: twoboysfourcats.com