The Time Has Come ...

... the Walrus said, to talk of many things:

Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax.

Of cabbages and kings,

And why the sea is boiling hot,

And whether pigs have wings* ...

You know what goes great with pigs and wings? Tom's barbecue sauce. I've debated forever whether to share his sauce. He tweaked it until it was perfect and then guarded it carefully. I, unable since birth to actually follow a recipe, have continued tweaking. For the good of all mankind and summer cookouts, here it is.

Tom's Barbecue Sauce

28 oz can crushed or pureed tomato
1/2 c soy sauce
1/2 c honey
2 T lemon juice
2 T Worcestershire sauce
2 T olive oil
1/2 c brown sugar
2 t chili powder
1/2 t basil
1 small onion, finely diced
1/2 t thyme
1/2 t cayenne
1/2 c white vinegar
2 cloves garlic
1 t mustard powder

Combine in a heavy pot and leave on a high simmer (but do not boil) for 2 hours. Cool to room temp the chill for 2 days before use.

A few things to keep in mind. In case you don't already know this, barbecue sauce is an art, not a science, and it's open to interpretation. Also, if you ever cooked with Tom you know he had a rule to double whatever the spices called for in a recipe. These spices are already doubled. But go for it and let me know if you like quadruple thyme (btdt, you won't).

Also, "honey" and "brown sugar" are open to interpretation. You like malt syrup? Go for it. You want to use light brown instead of dark brown? There are no rules in barbecuesauceland. In today's iteration I'm using maple syrup and maple sugar in their steads. I would not recommend corn syrup or white sugar unless you consciously want to highlight another ingredient. In which case  you have to report back.

Also, for the love of God, at least double the recipe. I usually quadruple it. After it's aged I throw it into ziplock bags in 2-cup measures and freeze flat, with newsprint between layers to keep them from freezing into a giant block.

And if you've stayed with me this long, you've earned a bonus "recipe." To make Tom's pulled pork, cook a Boston Butt in a slow cooker with a bottle of liquid smoke poured over (Gross, I know, right? But it works.) for 18-24 hours on low. Remove the bone and waste, discard the liquid, and and break up the meat. Return the pulled pork to the slow cooker, stir in about 2 cups of barbecue sauce and heat through. This honestly could not be an easier recipe unless you used store bought barbecue sauce, which I have been know to do and it hasn't killed me yet, And now I'm wondering what oysters in barbecue sauce would taste like.

Mangia!

* Excerpted from Lewis Carroll's The Walrus and the Carpenter

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.

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."

Ever the Romantic

Today's our anniversary. Ever the romantic, my proposal story goes something like this:

Me: Hmmmm, my lease is up in January.

Him: Well, maybe we should just get married and you move in here.

Me: Stutter …. Stammer … Headtilt … Cough (In my defense, I was paying $490 for an 1100 square foot rent-controlled apartment in Harvard Square.)

Him: So why don’t you go buy yourself a ring.  I’ll pay you back.

Sadly, we did not capture this moment on video.

He didn’t get off quite that easily, though. I made him come with me and put the ring on his own damn credit card. We picked out a very deep blue sapphire and set it with a small diamond on each side. I loved that ring and was heartbroken when it went missing a couple of years ago. One of the reasons I haven’t replaced my now-11-year-old minivan is because it’s conceivable (albeit unlikely) that the ring is somewhere hidden in the car: the last time I know I had it on I was en route to the pottery shop and realized I needed to take it off. I don’t know if I took it off in the car and left it there, or if I took it off at the pottery shop and it fell behind something, or if I didn’t take it off at all and it slipped off my finger into a discarded blob of clay. But I still hold out hope that I’ll find it wedged behind some bolt or stuck in a crevice in the car. So as much as I want this shiny new car, for the time being I’m sticking with my scratched up worn out old one with a shiny new transmission.

I never had that doves-and-trumpets fantasy wedding fantasy that some little girls have. In fact, for as long as I can remember, my “fantasy wedding” went something like this: I’d go into work on Monday morning and when everyone was talking about what they did that weekend, it'd come to my turn I’d drop an, “Oh, nothing much. I just got married, is all.” 

Okay, so we're both missing the romance gene. That in itself is a little romantic, don't you think?

I never had the white dress thing, either. Possibly before I'd even met Tom, I had been shopping at the old Loehmann's outlet in Burlington and found a really pretty mustard-yellow linen suit with eyelet embroidery  on the jacket and skirt. As soon as I laid eyes on it I knew I wanted to get married in it. I bought it there and then and it sat in the back of my closet for I-don't-know-how-long.

We planned to be married in the Council Chambers at Cambridge city hall. It’s a beautiful room and with its paneling, and jacquard and velvet, it's often the site chosen for special occasions. Mind you, Tom wanted to get married in front of the Mars meteorite at Harvard’s Natural History Museum, but I put the kaibosh on that (because whoever heard of getting married in front of a meteorite? That's crazy!)

 I.made arrangements (meaning, I filled out a form and paid a fee) to have my friend Jan authorized by the Governor to solemnize our marriage The authorization was for a particular person – Jan – to marry a particular couple – Tom and me – in a particular city – Cambridge – on a particular day – March 15 – and was voided if any one of the particulars changed.

Rena, one of the number of ex-girlfriends Tom stayed friends with after they broke up, was tickled to learn we were getting married at City Hall.“I want to come! You’ll be right around the corner from my house!” she proclaimed.  At first we said no, because it really was supposed to be a non-event, witnesses only, and we didn’t want other friends to learn she had been there and that they hadn’t been invited. We didn’t want any hurt feelings, and we were working with what in retrospect I realize was an obviously-overblown sense of other people's enthusiasm about our wedding.. We love Rena and of course we wanted her there. But we swore her to secrecy – she mustn't tell a soul that she had been included.

So we show up to city hall: Tom and I, Jan, and our miniature entourage, only to be informed by the Council chairperson that she only allows "real" Justices of the Peace to perform weddings inside the chambers. Indignant that charlatan solemnizers-for-a-day take business away from (and money out of the pockets of and food from the mouths of the children of) real JP’s, she explained this as if she was president of the JP union local.  It would have been funny if she hadn’t been serious. She wouldn't budge, and clearly we needed a Plan B. Fast.

The rest of the story was serendipity: We get to city hall to learn we can’t be married there. With the clock ticking down on Jan's authorization, Rena reminds us that her house is a short block away and she’d be honored to host our wedding at her house. So we traipse through a cold March drizzle (my big day’s big hair eventually even bigger than I had planned) to her home which, if she had planned to host a wedding that day, could not have been more appropriately appointed, right down to the flowers and wine.

I love that I’m the only person I know who got married in the home of her husband’s ex-girlfriend. I love that my husband was the kind of guy who had such lovely women in his life, and by extension, in mine. The only down side to getting married in Rena’s house: 15 years of, “Why can’t our house be tidy sometimes, like Rena’s? Remember that?” 

Wegman's Number 58

Tom had a long and passionate relationship with Wegmans going back long before I met him, back to his Cornell days. How many conversations did I feel excluded from, and maybe a little jealous of, when he and the Ithaca menfolk (Eric, Peter and Steve, I'm talking about you) waxed poetic (and endless) about Mistress Wegman. Cheeses not to be beat, an international section without peer; the cafe, the prepared foods, the liquor. The Chiavettas.

When Tom was offered the opportunity to recruit at Cornell for the Lab he jumped at it, and I jumped at the chance to tag along and finally meet her, face to face.  I was pregnant with 96  the first time we went.

Wegman's opened its newest store, number 58 (while the Customer Service Rep I chatted up explained that there are 70-something stores, she had no explanation for why the stores don't appear to be numbered sequentially),  in Northborough, MA a few weeks ago. I purposely stayed away that first week, recalling the chaos that was Wellington Circle when New England's first Krispy Kreme opened up there. The weeks went by and one thing or another kept getting in the way of my day trip out to Wegman's. Part of it might have been was gas prices, since the store is 50 miles from the house. Wegman's certainly won't be part of the regular Sunday morning circuit until the store planned for Burlington opens. But I had to go. I had to have a Wegman's.

Wasabi Cheddar. Tom would have
been all over that.

I finally got there this morning, and she was exactly as I remembered her. The cats will be eating Buju & Ziggie dry food for a while, and I'm guessing Pop Tarts from Wegman's taste just like Pop Tarts from Stop & Shop, but I bought some anyway. Because I heart Pop Tarts. And I heart Wegmans.

About half of the cheese department

And the cheeses! I've solved one Thanksgiving question: We'll be serving cheese and crackers for an appetizer. Including a 5-year-aged smoked gouda, which has a consistency more like aged parm than the brown-wrapped "gouda processed cheese product" I usually pick up for mac & cheese, along with a soft sottocenere cheese which I first thought was coated with some kind of grey moldy layer from the aging, but no, it's actually ash. The cheese is matured in "a spicy ash". I'll let you know ...

It was bittersweet, being in that Wegman's without Tom. He would have loved it, and we likely would have left the store with a far greater credit card charge than I did, but I put in a good effort. I resisted the urge to drop $180 for the Wegman's Lionel train set.

The Indian section in International Foods

Tom probably would have liked the international foods section the best.  Inside one of the shelving units in the international foods sections, underneath the Indian foods, I tucked one of his laminated memorial cards. Tom loved food, of course. All food. Any food. Especially Indian food. It's not my favorite cuisine, but I can't smell Indian spicing without thinking of Tom. So until it gets discovered during the next remodel of this brand new store he'll be among his favorite Pataks, and curries, and naan. I added a little note to the back of the card so that if someone does find it I hope they put it back where it belongs. Because for Tom, I think heaven might be a giant Wegmans.

_____

18 Months ...

Today is 18 months. Tom died at precisely 6am on Sunday, February 7, 2010. It's been a long haul, but I think the boys and I are adjusting okay, and we're getting on with business. The boys have done well in school, we're getting ready for our new school year in a couple of weeks. But I just miss Tom. So. Damned. Much.

A brief list of things I miss would include kissing his bald spot, scratching his back and cuddling on the couch watching the Sunday morning talking heads shows (I think he'd really like Christiane Amanpour on This Week. We patiently held on during the "Sam and Cokie" debacle and the George Stephanopoulos shoutfests, longing for the civilized Brinkley days of yore). I miss hearing him talk to himself in the shower, and the smell of coffee brewing in the morning (and the mug of tea that would have magically appeared in the bathroom before I stepped out of the shower). I miss the sound of his car pulling into the driveway at the end of the work day. And this week in particular I miss C and Ada, who thought Tom walked on water.  And grocery stores will never feel the same to me.

I miss Tom's spectacular garden.   Oh, I've put one in this year, of course, but this garden sucks and it's my fault because I didn't till, because that was Tom's job. He loved to fill the minivan with manure and bags of peat moss and fertilizer and spread it all out and then till it all in. And then he'd till again, deaf to (or more likely ignoring) my protestations that he was just making things harder for himself. I didn't till this year, and I didn't till last year, and so the garden sucks and it's all my fault.

I have had his ashes in one of his favorite pieces of pottery for a year and a half now, sitting on his dresser in my room. Unfortunately, the dresser is becoming increasingly cluttered with a year-and-a-half's worth of accumulated stuff that doesn't have a home.  But Tom hated clutter and I can't imagine he'd approve of his current arrangement. Someone gave me the idea to put his ashes on his workbench until I'm ready to spread them in the Fells (which I'm not), and I think he'd like that.  He'd be glad that I'm taking care of the workbench, using it, even. And with the help of about half a can of WD-40, I recently got the table saw up and running for the first time since the flood. All his tools are neatly sorted and hanging on his pegboard (no, I haven't gone so Martha-Stewarty as to draw outlines on the pegboard to indicate the exact location of every tool, but I'm tempted). There's his hammer and his Wonder Bar (probably his favorite hand tool. No household problem was so big it couldn't be resolved with the booming command, "Get me my Wonder Bar"), and his row of about 23 screwdrivers, sorted by size. I think he'd like to know his tools are okay.

I know he'd be glad to know we're getting there.

Tom Would Have Been So Pleased

Tom would have been so pleased.   During the summer of probably 2005 or 2006, after years of trying to discourage dog walkers from letting their dogs use our fence along the entrance to the Middlesex Fells for their ... business ... Tom and I planted raspberry bushes there, a spot of land owned by the state, maintained by the city, and accessible to all.   Tom's theory was that everyone would be more invested in taking care of the driveway area, even though none of us owned it, with the siren song of those beautiful raspberries calling us to them.

We had a few extra plants that didn't fit along the fence and planted them just inside the gate into the Fells and have paid them not one whit of attention in all the ensuing years.

That first summer after we planted the bushes (and if you've ever seen raspberry seedlings,  you know I should really just call them twigs) we didn't realize that the city's maintenance included weedwhacking the entire driveway flat.  Oops.  The next year, we replanted, but embedded wire mesh in the ground around the base of the plants, and mentioned it to the guys when they came around again, and the plants have happily survived our annual Weedwhacking Day ever since.

We nurtured those plants along the fence,watering them often. 96 and 98 poured a 2-liter bottle over each of the plants every Saturday, and spiked the water with fertilizer during the growing season.

Apparently the dogs and their owners didn't fully appreciate our gift to them, and the dogs continued abusing our fence and raspberries, despite every remedy we could think of, including (separately), polite signs, stern signs, cayenne pepper, baking soda and soap. Nothing worked. The berry bushes along the fence never thrived, but they're still alive and I haven't given up on them.

But oh, those bushes inside the Fells! All of a sudden (literally, like, this week) they're as tall as I am, and have spread to cover probably 75 square feet.   I collected nearly a pint of berries this morning without even trying.  In fact, with Medford being the birthplace of the infamous gypsy moth caterpillar on my mind, I worry a bit that maybe we have unleashed the next Medford invasion on the northeast. But even if we did, I mean, it's black raspberries. It could have been worse. It could have been wild broccoli.

You're welcome.

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.

Valentine's Day, 1996

It seems to me I'm always mentioning how I find treasures rifling through drawers and files while I'm looking for something else. Today's tale is no different, except I don't recall that I was particularly looking for anything.  I just recently stumbled across the little card I used to tell Tom I was pregnant with Agent 96 on Valentine's Day, 1996. And even with the evidence in my hand, including the positive pregnancy test, which today still shows the [+] (and no, I'm not going to show you a picture of it!), I honestly have no recollection of doing this. I recall the card; in fact, when I was putting together photos for his memorial I wanted to include the card, a small, die-cut tiger.  A little secret between us was that I called him "Tiger", and he called me "Kitten". Eww, I know. What worse, when 96 was born, we called him "Tigger" sometimes. (Remember that rattle Zoet chewed up? It was 96's Tigger.)

Quick, get the insulin.

I remember giving him the card for Valentine's Day in 1996, I just don't recall the whole "I'm having a baby" spin.  How does a person forget something like that?

Usually, events with the second child take a back seat to the first: 96's baby book is complete, including the first day he sat, unaided, in a grocery cart (5 months) and his first fat lip (during the April Fool's Day blizzard in 1997); I sold 98's baby book in a yard sale, factory seal unbroken. The photos in 96's first year album are labeled; I don't even have a first-year album for 98. Of course, I famously have both boys' umbilical stumps in a carton in the attic. They are in the jeweler's boxes my engagement ring and wedding band came in.  Suffice it to say, saving those little belly buttons had me off raisins for a while.

Back to Agent 98. It's hard to imagine a memory burned more strongly into my synapses:. There I was, 40 years old, in the upstairs bathroom: 6-month-old 96 (who was still nursing full time, for the record) in one arm, and there, in my other hand, another [+].

"Tom ... can you come up here for a sec?"

January 17, 2011

I have struggled with how to recognize today: what would have been, and what should have been, Tom's 58th birthday.  So I thought I'd share some more moments. In no particular order:

This was Agent 96's first cous cous dinner. About a half-step lower on the spectrum than a Thanksgiving feast, cous cous dinners were a ritual at our home. In fact, on Kwaj we once had a cous cous feast instead of a Thanksgiving turkey dinner. Tom loved himself some Moroccan food. Tom loved himself food, and sharing it with his friends.

We had to put Neko to sleep in 1998, when she was 18 years old. I knew we'd be going to the vet later this day, and my heart knew Tom wouldn't get to hold her again. Poor little Neko looks comfortable in this photo, but she could barely stand, and could no longer walk. A few months before she died, Neko, who had taken to hanging out with Tom in the office (where Tom had jury-rigged a running water fountain out of a plastic box, an aquarium pump, and tubing) and increasingly tired of walking up and down two flights of stairs to the litter box, had taught herself to use the toilet. We were alone in the house one day, just Tom, sleeping 96, and I, when from the kitchen we heard someone using the bathroom upstairs. We looked at each other, and remarked upon it, but it wasn't until days later that we actually saw that little kitty sitting up there, assuming the position.






Oh, how we loved our tropical Christmases. And what better way to spend Christmas Eve than teaching your 4- and 5-year-olds how to drive? 

 This might be my actual, official wedding portrait ...

  ... but here, my friend Laura caught Tom speaking his vows  -- proof!  This is my favorite wedding photo.  In our church service a few months later, Fr. Hehir, unhappy that we used the same vows, tacked on to the end that God had put Tom in charge of family security, and put me in charge of the household. So whenever I'd ask Tom to take out the rubbish, he had to do it  ... because God said so!

About two weeks before we pcs'd from  Kwaj in 2002, Tom and I spent a long weekend in Pohnpei, FSM, where we visited Nan Madol. We met our friends Mooch and TOO (short for "The Other One") who let us stay in their thatched hut at The Village as long as we fed them.  I don't remember which is which, but I know they were fatter when we left than when we got there.

Our first visit to the Big Island, 1999.   Don't you love  96 & 98 all matchy-matchy like that?  I'd still put them in matching t-shirts if I could! This was moments before the dotcom bubble burst, and if we had had our checkbook with us the day we stepped off the plane on that vacation we would own a little piece of paradise today. And we would never have left.

Lake Mooselookmeguntic, Oquossoc, Maine. Tom had been going there with friends for years before we met, and I was quite honored the first time he invited me along. We went once with the kids in the early days, but were so mortified by "the great magic marker debacle of '99" that we were afraid to make reservations again until the summer of 2006. Ever wonder what to do if you find an unattended black magic marker?  Stop.  Don't touch.  Leave the area.  Tell an adult.

I don't know which was more of a chick magnet: the cool Daytona, or Maxwell. They're both pretty hot. Hmmmm ... all three of them were pretty hot, actually!

I treasure every moment, every memory.  The lifetime of moments that make the life of a man.

It Was Bittersweet

It was bittersweet.

Today Agent 98 had a bowling tournament in Lowell and the Garmin sent me up on 95 to 495 which is my preferred route to points north.  But it brought me home via Rte 3, a route I always detested because before it was rebuilt many years ago it was narrow, curvy, slow, and crowded -- and all speedtrappy whenever it wasn't slow and crowded. I have never have gotten into the habit of using it, and almost didn't today, but it was a Sunday afternoon, so I went along with the instructions.


It was bitter, because for the first time since May 10, 1994, when we crossed 110, I didn't hear how Mr. An Wang had bought the land and built the Wang Labs building (which is shaped like a "W" you know) for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's. It was sweet because, well, for the first time since May 10, 1994, I didn't hear how Mr. Wang had bought the land and built the building for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's. I mean, really, Tom? You've told me that story before. Like. Every. Single. Time.

So what did I do? When we crossed 110 I pointed out the building and told 98 the story of how Mr. An Wang had bought the land and built the building (which is shaped like a "W" you know) for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's.

It wasn't quite the same, but family traditions have to start somewhere, right?

Buried Deep in the Back of my Already Overpacked Linen Closet ...

About a week before Tom started his first drug clinical trial (mid-2009) we spent an afternoon and a fair pile of cash in our local Vitamin Shoppe, GNC and CVS on vitamins, supplements and whatnot. Of course, one of the caveats of clinical trialdom is "no non-prescribed drugs or supplements". So while he had consumed a few pills from some of the bottles, some of the bottles are still factory sealed.

Here's what I have. If I note that the bottle is open, then only a few days' worth are gone.

• American Health Chewable Super Papaya Enzyme Plus 360 tablets - open - exp 6/11
• MushroomScience Certified Organic Coriolus Super Strength 90 tablets 600 mg  - exp 1/12 (I have five of these factory sealed and one open)
• Osteo Bi-Flex 120 tablets - open - exp 2/11
• Vitamin Shoppe Selenium 300 tablets 200 mcg - open - exp 10/10
• CVS Glucosamine Chondroitin Double Strength 120 caplets - exp 9/10 (I have one of these opened and one factory sealed)
• Nature's Way Reservatol Synergistic Formula 60  Vcaps 37.5 mcg - open - exp 2/10
• GNC L-Glutamine Powder 8 oz -  factory sealed - exp 5/11
• Vitamin Shoppe Borage Oil  300 softgel capsules 1000 mg -open -  exp 10/09
• Vitamin Shoppe Soy Isoflavones 120 tablets  - open - exp 1/11
• Vitamin Shoppe Turmeric Extract 95% curcumin  300 capsules - open - exp 11/11
• Vitamin Shoppe Green Tea Extract 75% Polyphenols 300 Capsules 250 mg - open - exp 8/10
• CVS Natural Fish Oil 198  Softgels 1200 mg - factory sealed - exp 7/11
• CVS Spectravite multivitamin 250 tablets - factory sealed - exp 1/10

If you are interested in any or all of these dietary supplements, drop me a comment or send me an email and we'll work something out. I don't want to sell them; I want to give them to you. I'll even pay postage. I just don't want these to go to waste.

You will see that some have passed their expiration date. Keep in mind that I have codeine in my medicine cabinet that was prescribed in 1998 after my son was born (in case you didn't notice, their blog nicknames are their birth years - Agents 96 and 98) by a doctor in Medford. Then we moved to Kwaj for nearly 5 years, and we've been back in Medford for 8 more years. And I took one a couple of weeks ago when I had that sinus headache. So no, we're not so much into expiration dates around here. I won't side-eye you if you respect them.  Just don't lecture me that I don't.

I Think I'll Wait 'Til It's Over to Put This Up

Part 1

I learned quickly after Tom's diagnosis mostly to trust (dot)gov, edu, and org websites when looking for educational information about cancer.  While lots of (dot)coms are there to sell stuff, some will provide helpful anecdotal information, which is valuable if you're looking for anecdotes.  When I was searching for information, information that I literally was going to bet my husband's life on, I only trusted (dot)gov's and org's and edu's.  And not just any (dot)gov or (dot)edu.  Along with  Harvard Medical School and its affiliated institutions, my top go-to sites included the NIH (National Institutes of Health), Johns Hopkins and Memorial Sloan-Kettering. They served me well and are eminently readable. The Mayo Clinic was the major exception to my "no-dot-coms" rule.

I have a little time on my hands today to blog, because I need to stay close to home. At home, actually. At home near the bathroom.

I'm prepping for my colonoscopy tomorrow and have started the - ahem - clear liquid part of the process. So here are some sites I'd recommend for information about colonoscopies, and colorectal cancer prevention and treatment:

No offense, Dr. Gastroenterology, but for those of us being so conscientious and getting our colonoscopies starting at age 50, and then following up the recommended every 10 years unless abnormal results are found, when can we STOP getting screened for this type of cancer?

And here's everything you ever wanted to know about polyps but were afraid to ask.

I'm not exactly clear on the benefits of a virtual colonoscopy. You have to go through the same prep process, the verb "insert" is still a major player. But if anything out of the ordinary is found, the doctor cannot take a sample (for a biopsy) or remove it (in the case of polyps). In that case (remember, I'm no doctor), wouldn't you have to have an old-fashioned colonoscopy anyway?

One question I haven't been able to find an answer to online is why this electrolyte solution has to taste so freaking bad. If we can put a man on the moon, can't we at least make this stuff taste like Moxie? I don't think I'm asking too much.

I don't know if it's just because my grandfather died of colon cancer when I was very young and he seemed very old (he was probably in his sixties), but I think of it as an old man disease; certainly it's not front-and-center on my radar. But these famous non-old-men have all been diagnosed with or died of colorectal cancer.

I'm just sayin' ...

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Part 2

I can't not have pictures, can I?

Everything's fine. Back again in 2015.

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Part 3

And I thought this was just too funny not to include.  So during the prep I had a question, and called the doctor's office, and spoke with someone on his staff.  She mentioned in passing, "Oh, I'm late for mine; I need to schedule it for myself."   I made a comment about cobbler's children, and then asked what was probably wildly inappropriate, but I know for a fact I've done worse: "So", I asked, "when you need a colonoscopy do you go to this Dr. Gastroenterology, or do you have your own?" I could hear her shaking her head, responding that she does, indeed, have her boss perform her colonoscopy.  Just think about that the next time you think your boss is way too far up your a$$.

Have You Ever Owned A Dog?

There couldn’t have been a more straightforward question, particularly coming from the adoption desk at the Northeast Animal Shelter while you’re adopting a dog. As I was uttering my response, I knew I had misplaced my modifier, and the woman at the desk, Marianne, wasn’t going to understand. I tried to take them back, but the words had already spilled from my mouth.

Standing next to me, my sister Jeanne heard the words as they were floating through the air, and tried to grab them and give them back to me. No such luck.

Marianne heard my answer, and replied with the only reasonable response.

Tom with Maxwell, about 1989

Marianne: Have you ever owned a dog?
Me: My husband had a dog, but he died.
Marianne: Your husband or the dog?

Jeanne and I looked at each other, then looked at ashen-faced Marianne who realized what she had just asked, and all three of us laughed at the absurdity of the exchange. Then I told Marianne about my animal loving husband, Tom, feeling pretty assured we'd take our dog home after that.

No Dog Yet, You Say?

I started wanting a dog when Tom was sick. I'm sure the pain is the same whether your spouse has brain cancer, or heart disease or any terminal illness (Tom considered his cancer "terminal" with the quotes, having read much about long-term survivors. Few though they were, they were not non-existent.), but brain cancer had already robbed me of my hard-working, cuttingly-sarcastic, animal-loving, handyman-project-doing, car-guy husband, and my sense of loneliness was all the more acute because Tom was alive, but no longer, well, Tom. A dog would love me, and keep me warm, and fill the hole in my heart that I shouldn't have had because I should have just been grateful my husband was there, sleeping right next to me in the bed every night, drinking his coffee and reading his paper every morning. But that emptiness in my heart continued to grow, and my desolation darkened. And that dog? I really just wanted a dog to love me. I wanted somebody to love me. And for God's sake, at least the damned dog wouldn't die of brain cancer.

Then, Tom died. I don't know how else to explain it. Tom died, and the loneliness that I felt finally at least felt normal. My husband was dead, my sons' father was gone, and that the loneliness was expected made it somehow more tolerable. Getting from today to tomorrow became easier after Tom died, as I found myself already partway through the process of grieving his loss. The desperate yearning for a dog slowly subsided, replaced by the quiet belief that there's a place in our family for a dog.

So there we were today, at the Northeast Animal Shelter:  the place Tom took me on our second date; one of his memorial charities; and the place where the sweetest little  Belgian Schipperke x picked us for her forever family. She came with the utterly unacceptable name Skippette, so we're down to business picking out a name. I think her name is supposed to be Zoetje, dutch for "little sweet one". Any dutch speaking readers out there? Please advise.

And say hello to the newest Gentile, Zoetje.

Next Stop: Memory Lane

So I'm searching through my files for some piece of paper that I'm sure is in there, but I sure as heck can't find. I'm desperate, and truly hoping that this particular item wasn't part of that 2 1/2 big black construction bags of paperwork I shredded after Tom died. All those bank statements and credit card statements from 1978; the electric bills from the 1980's; all that paper. I could have heated the house all winter with the paper I culled from our files. It's the only "winnowing" I've done since Tom died, and it was months ago. So now I'm hyperventilating, and pulling out one file at a time,searching through each, sheet by sheet. I eventually found whatever piece of paper I was looking for, filed right where it belonged under "W" for "where should I put this so I'll be sure to find it six years from now when I finally need it", but not before finding some very special treats. I didn't even know Tom had these, and I love them all.

Except for the laminated birth announcement photo that was in the paper when he was a couple of months old, this undated photo is the earliest picture of Tom I have. I see that the unease that Gentile menfolk feel with Santa is a genetic thing. 'Splains a lot.

I'm guessing, since his birthday is in January, that this is just before he turned 2. Seems too old for turning 1, and too young for almost 3. I love the shoes, which seem to be one of the few things Tom didn't save-in-case-he-might-need-them-later.

As Madeline efficiently noted on the back of this photo, it's "Tommy 28 months, Gerald 2 months May 1955" Tom and I may have been destined to meet, but I'm glad he had a brother to keep him occupied at this time, as I hadn't even been conceived yet. This may have been the last time my husband did not object to being called Tommy.

Tom and Gerry at Aunt Lee's house in Jamaica, Queens. 1961 Calling them "Tom and Gerry" always makes me giggle.

I don't have any childhood photos (that I'm aware of, and I only just this week even became aware of these, so who knows what else lurks in the bowels of this house?) of Tom with his brother Jim (hint, hint, Kathy!)

School photo, 3rd grade, 8 years old. But I don't know the name of the elementary school Tom attended. I'm only aware of Molloy, which was junior high and high school. I don't know what SMS on the tie stands for. (St. Mary's School; thanks A!)

And speaking of Archbishop Molloy, here's Tom's high school graduation inside what I can only guess is the house in Woodside, for which I probably still have a key. We can see the nascent long hair. I think he really liked that Agent 96 has long hair, but I wonder how Joe felt about it on his son. My brother Jack  used to get "Jacqueline" alot, although no one would dare that move now. May 1970

I've left his First Holy Communion pictures for last, so I can sneak in a few of my own, too. May 21, 1960.

Agent 96's picture on the occasion of his First Communion, normal enough. And above, with his cousin C, who celebrated her confirmation at the same time; and his co-First-Eucharister cousin J.

Agent 98's First Holy Communion picture. Nothing that would set off alarms ... but this is 98, remember. Behind that cute face lies the soul of a person who would ask for ...

... a word search cake for his First Holy Communion celebration. Can it really be okay to eat chocolate cupcakes that say "Body of Christ"? (So far, so good.)

Solution below, but c'mon, it's not that hard!

Six Months

Six months. Six months, and I have not yet cleaned out a drawer or a closet or thrown out a single sock. Among the stuff I have not thrown away is a Lincoln phone list dated June 5, 2005. And MacInTax disks for a mac that's been gone since before Kwaj. And in this pile of keys is a key to the Daytona (the chick magnet, which he sold for $400 in 1998), and probably a key to the house in Rochester, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was a key to the house in Woodside.

I see the key to one of Tom's ex's here

I wear his t-shirts as nightgowns, and I wear his underwear every day.  I wore them in Niagara Falls, and I wore them in Hawaii, and Pennsylvania; and yes, I have them on right now. It makes me feel like Tom is still taking care of me.

Yup, probably ...

This is not a new thing, this obsession I have with his underwear (briefs, not boxers). I had an ER visit once for an asthma attack, at least ten years but probably much longer ago than that, and poor Tom was mortified to discover I was wearing his underwear. "Ew, gross! What if the doctor finds out?! Won't you be embarrassed?", I remember him asking at the time. (He did, and I wasn't.) And I know it traumatized Tom, because his first question before any subsequent ER visit, I kid you not, was always: "You're not wearing my underwear, are you?" Ever the Good Wife, I always changed into my own underwear for an ER visit.

Since we've been married, I've always worn his underwear and had my morning tea in his mug when he travelled. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, I suppose I thought at the time. Nowadays, I guess I do it because I just like having his cooties.

Six months, and counting.

Luck - or Skill --With some Patience Thrown in, Too

A friend of mine, who had never actually met Tom, made an off-the-cuff remark on Facebook today that sent me flying down Memory Lane. She simply commented that today is the anniversary of the day she met her husband. I love marking occasions like that. There were years when I'd remember to celebrate our day-we-met-iversary, but we'd realize weeks too late that we both forgot our wedding anniversary. I have one of those year-to-year calendars that you use to mark birthdays, anniversaries, etc. and never goes out of date which has some pretty wild dates marked. (First day Agent 96 sat up unsupported in a grocery cart? It's there.)

The calendar will tell you that Tom and I met on May 10, 1994 (also my dear friend Maurice's birthday, as it tells me every year). We had pizza at Bertucci's in Central Square, then ice cream at Toscanini's (he had Guinness sorbet; I had cardamom ice cream); then he went out of town for a couple of weeks. After he returned we went out a few more times. On my birthday, JUNE fif-FORGODSAKEGETITOVERWITHALREADYWILLYA-teenth, he gave me a peck on the cheek. Just a dry, quick peck on the cheek. Because it was my birthday.

We went out a few more times, but I was growing increasing desperate. Tom's a great guy, he's already told me about his life plan: family, Kwajalein, garden, house, etc., and I'm showing interest; but I can't get even a little spit action? What's up with that?

Desperate for a advice, my friends Tom and Jack from work took me out to the House of Blues in Harvard Square (now long gone) where all three of us got blasted well past wise, or legal, or able-to-remain-upright by the time we were dunn (yes, dunn). But one of them gave me this advice, "Linda, walk up to him, grab him by the scruff of the neck, and plant one on him." The next time I saw him (and after the hangover had abated) we were making dinner at his house. I was cutting beans, put my knife down, and walked across the room to where he was working on the steaks. Boom. My calendar tells me that that was July 16, and we called the dress I wore that day my "lucky dress" for years thereafter. Believe me when I tell you that dress saw a lot of action.

I'm not really strong at remembering momentous occasions. I much prefer to remember the moments.