Last year's holiday cards

I was rifling through some old cards and came across ours from last year, when August was just 8 months old. I didn't even get out cards before January! But sometimes I think a new year should be celebrated just as much as the gift-giving time.

And it's funny—once you have kids, you really do want to stick a photo of them on each card. You want all those far-flung family members to know what they look like right then, right at that holiday time.

I remember being dressed in whatever red and green clothing my brother and I had, and posing for holiday cards in a variety of ways. I remember holding up Christmas stockings, trying to wrangle a feisty cat (that was a seriously funny card, our cat Shadow wriggling out of my arms, me cracking up through a faceful of pissed-off fur), forcing a smile on a glum tween day. I remember it being boring, I remember it being funny.

I have copies of most of them (there were always dozens of leftovers), and though I cringe at some of them (so many years of tween to teen awkward looks and baby fat!) I am happy to own all of them.

However, I know my brother does not feel the same way
;)
I don't usually employ emoticons, but that simply required it.

Our holiday cards

I highly recommend the Pocketbooth app for a smartphone (or at least the iPhone). And I've always loved those little coin envelopes which really don't have much purpose, but boy are they cute. Just snap, print, cut out, fold, tuck into envelope. I actually then used double-sided tape to stick the little silver envelope onto a larger piece of cardstock, and wrote a note around the edges.

Hm, I may have to design a freebie based on this. It wasn't the least time-consuming card I've ever made, but it just might be the cutest. Well, a fat baby always helps up the cute factor.

Tiny acts of heroism

We went to the funeral service of our friend Joe on Sunday, and I have never seen so many men cry. Joe was under 40 and there are two small children and a single mom in her 30's left behind, and all these men in the pews were not only mourning a friend but also crying in utter terror of something like this happening to them. Of the possibility of being parted from their families, in their sleep. If, like in that bedtime prayer, you happen to die before you wake, these men weren't praying to the lord "their souls to take". They were praying for no taking at all.

There were those statements about how Joe will never be truly gone if we remember him in our hearts, the kind of platitude that, sure, is true, but that we've heard so many times in our post-heaven community that you start yearning for religion that just says the departed's soul is nurtured in heaven, forever. And the platitude about keeping him alive in our memories was spoken by a Unitarian minister even. Maybe Unitarians aren't heaven types? I'm not that familiar with that branch, most of my readings about religion are about the older ones.

One of his children is 4 years old and will probably not remember his father.

But there was this one eulogy by Joe's band's lead singer (his band played during the service, that was awesome) that spoke of Joe's constant small acts of heroism, which we were all familiar with but hadn't put in those terms. He was the kind of guy who would show up with his toolkit just by your mentioning in passing that your stupid bathroom faucet dripped. He did this kind of thing every single day, these simple unasked for acts. There was a long story involving a bunch of people getting lost on a mountain and night falling and Joe suddenly saying "Aha!", fashioning torches out of t-shirts, eventually stripping down to provide the last cloth fuel necessary. The story went on to include starting a motorboat with a shoelace and more.

Somehow the phrase "acts of kindness" doesn't really suit, because he didn't even seem to be doing it because he was nice or because that's what one should do or because that gets you into heaven. He just did it, on automatic.

You know why it's more like a small acts of heroism? Because he would show up with his toolkit to fix your faucet when you were just sitting down to dinner. Or bring up braised kale without thinking whether we would like it or not (we did). Does that make sense? They were tiny acts of heroism because heroism is an action without forethought—it is a jumping-in, a leap made before you think "Oh shit, are there rocks under the surface of the water?" or "Do they like kale?".

Now that I think about it, it's a kind of automatic that you hope to emulate but sometimes can't, because that means the effort of emulation, a pause. I'm the type who worries about whether someone likes kale or what time they eat dinner. I'm more considerate, I consider things, which means I will never do as much. During that time that I ask someone what kind of food they like and then angst over the most interesting recipe, go shopping for that meal and cook it, Joe would have already accomplished like 4 things for them.

Heroism is un-emulatable.

As a coda to all this, I haven't even mentioned the totally self-involved part, that this has been another installment in what Paul and I were already calling the Year of Death. This is our fourth funeral in 8 months and that doesn't even include the passing of our dog Mila. And though it would be nice to believe it will be bounded to 2012 we fear that it will be more circumscribed by a full 12 months, April to April. Circumscribed like a fortress wall around this one period. So we hope.

No more deaths please.

More tears for our tri-state area...

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

I can only put up my own pictures, I cannot bring myself to put up images of the increased devastation. The number of people without electricity has increased again, people are still without heat, and the dropping temperatures are sapping our strong bull-headed New Yorkers and New Jerseyites determination to persevere and roll up their sleeves, rolling up your sleeves makes you cold, and the mountains of donated down jackets are hard to dispense and there are all these elderly people who can't make it down all the stairs in the projects near the shore and so food must be carried by volunteers up 4, 6, 8, 10 floors while wearing headlamps in dark stairwells. We were going to volunteer driving around to the homebound this weekend but this is a gas shortage, and with a toddler we can't afford to get stranded with only crowded bus service to slowly get us back home, in the snow.

Devastation draped in pretty snow.

But one happy note.

I posted last Friday about one more devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy that broke me just when I was climbing up out of the sorrow of the week, when I learned that the NY Aquarium was in severe danger. Perhaps stupid to care so much about it, but obviously other people care greatly too, as the NY Times has given a big, joyous update on it.

The facility, and nearly all the creatures, have survived! A miracle considering raucous ocean water poured into the aquarium, lapping even into the tanks. But everyone is doing well, except for a pool of freshwater koi who simply could not be saved.

I will quote just the end of the article:

Mr. Dohlin speculated that even though the floodwaters had poured into the top of the tanks, the cold ocean water must have sat on top of the tank water, “striated,” as it were. The fish were happy to remain in their own half. With one exception: A staff member found a three-foot-long American eel alive in three inches of water at the bottom of a staff shower stall, after the basement was pumped out.

“It was such an affirmation that maybe miracles do happen,” Mr. Dohlin said. “We immediately named him Lazarus.”

Vote!

It may have taken us 2 hours, half of that in the cold, but we did it. Our greatest privilege and responsibility as citizens. The line grew so long that people exiting often stopped and exclaimed at it wrapping around the block. Exclamations heard: "Land sakes!" and "OMG [as literally oh-em-gee]" and "Oh my goodness..." and "You poor people!" and of course "Holy shit!". Yes, we are the hardy, the determined, the voters. And our voting location was on Brooklyn's old Ebbett's Field. Standing on history.

The line outside

The line inside

 

Believe it or not, paper ballots. I don't think I've had to fill in a circle in decades.

 

 A celebratory Egg McMuffin

No matter what the outcome I breathe deep and try to remember how lucky I feel to be part of a democratic process. And that no matter what the outcome the earth will still be here tomorrow, 4 years from now, 8 years from now. Heck, even after people are gone. That makes me feel good.

Though I would like us to explore space.

Photos by moi, sorry for blurry iPhone-ness

p.s. If you want to know even more about why I feel lucky to be part of a democracy you can read my father Spencer Weart's history book Never at War: Why Democracies Will Not Fight One Another. I spent the 90's listening to story after story about it.

And now I'm getting hurricane tears again

I just just posted about sending out thoughts to non-NYC places, since they get so much less attention. But then I checked in on how our aquarium on the shore is doing, since I knew they'd saved everything and thought I'd get a boost of warmth in the midst of all this, and discovered something frightening: because they have been without power for so long, they may need to evacuate. They may need to evacuate 18,000 water animals, who of course can't walk. And require very fragile technical care.

Employees have stayed around the clock, particularly to care for Mitik the baby walrus who just joined the ranks of the aquarium. There are generators working to support the most fragile environments. I pray that the city feels this wonderful place, this delicate fragile mini-ecosystem, deserves prioritization.

And along the same line of thought of not just caring about the famous, don't forget to save the cold-blooded creatures and invertebrates! Mammals get all the attention.

All photos by Julie Larsen via NY1, courtesy the Wildlife Conservation Society

Today I am fighting hurricane tears so...

The news is just all too sad. We were so lucky that it's hard to truly visualize what is happening elsewhere. My parents are still without power, my pharmacist's house was severely damaged, and I don't even personally know any shore residents other than one friend in the Rockaways whose bungalow was magically preserved. But for whatever reason, after reading so much news and now getting worried about gas disappearing, it is starting to wear me down.

Paul's family in Texas has given an outpouring of love and spiritual support to us east coasters, and one said she "hoped people would rally" in the face of all this. And you know what? New Yorkers shine, they shine, during crisis. I told her that I think it is our brusque bull-headed attitude that makes everyone roll up their sleeves during a crisis and reach out to their neighbors, to strangers, to abandoned pets and stray deer caught in storming surf. We are indomitable, as has been proven before, even if there's some fisticuffs in the gas lines. When the shit really hits the fan, when people are truly in trouble, we RESPOND. Even before it's asked for. I mean, it's not like the deer caught in the riptide could ask for help, it's not like the guy who risked his life to pull it out was even thinking straight. He was just a bullheaded New Yorker.

So I am showing you my favorite images, the ones that made me smile rather than made me cry.

Free electricity, via Swiss Miss

Restaurants who still had power giving away free food (and because they had power this was not because their food was going to go bad, it was purely to help out) via BuzzFeed

Doctor giving free aid, via BuzzFeed

And the historic carousel they just installed in Brookllyn Bridge Park miraculously survived, the water only getting to the floorboards. When people pray for the safety of inanimate objects I get teary.

via Andrew Sullivan from The Daily Beast

But this morning I find myself crying for New Jersey. People don't pay attention to New Jersey, they will forget about their vanished shoreline and boardwalks that brought them livelihoods and peace, because they're not famous like we are here. I'm starting to think (and I bet there are studies about this) that living in a dense urban environment is even better for surviving disaster. Your neighbors are within a few feet of you. Evacuation centers are within walking distance. And our firefighters can reach the hospitals so easily and are the tough old Irish stock who can carry a woman in the middle of delivering a baby down EIGHTEEN FLOORS. Or who carry generators UP 13 floors. Who are these amazing men and women? 

In the countryside, which don't get me wrong I love deeply, it is so hard to reach each other. A bridge goes down and you are stranded. Your electricity goes out and you run out of firewood and you must hike to your neighbor and hope their generator has enough gas, and that they are comfortable with sharing. These things have happened to me. One neighbor was made intensely uncomfortable by my presence. There is so much less to go around. You don't know if the government is going to step in and have the army bring in gas and food. Which they will always always do for New York City. Because we are famous. And because you can take care of millions of people in one swoop.

The electric companies have literally said that they must prioritize areas with the most dense populations. If there is a choice between fixing the electric lines for 1000 people or 5 people, they must choose the greater number. I understand that. And so I feel so lucky to live where I do.

But what about everyone else...

Please don't forget everyone else. Please don't forget those upstate, or in New Jersey, or any other affected area. NYC needs only so much thought—we're famous.

Trick or treat come hell or high water

Our neighborhood's annual Safewalk, where they close several streets for kids' safe trick or treating, was canceled this year due to Hurricane Sandy. But on the Prospect Lefferts Gardens listserve, the community voiced a different opinion—GAME ON.

We brought out our tripod and took some photos of kids from the building. You can see the semi-successful attempts at getting the toddlers to stay still.

And for those who aren't familiar with the brand of toys called UglyDoll, I made a Ninja Batty Shogun costume for August to match his stuffed animal. Potentially last year that I can force him to wear whatever I want him to wear, despite his vain attempts to remove his hood (maniacal laugh "bwahahaha!").

What we did during the hurricane

We were let off easy. In a way it's too hard to think about what happened to all of the east coast, particularly to our beloved city, particularly to its aging and venerable subway system, the oldest in the world. It works so hard, like a draft horse who never gets to stop in its life, and now it must be saved.

Here are the things I worry about, a paean to things in all their non-human-ness:
—The Coney Island Aquarium (apparently workers stayed throughout and the baby walrus is doing fine!)
—Fairway. Why fear for a supermarket? Because I love it, deeply, and think of all that produce washing to sea in a tide of poisoned water
—The oh so recently resurrected 1922 carousel at the Brooklyn Bridge Park. Salt water lapping at their hooves.
—Docks and manufacturing close to the water
—All those artist studios in Gowanus
—Our dear dear subway

But we ourselves were lucky, here on our high point, and organized a game of "soccer" for all the wee ones in the building. To all those out there overcoming damage, loss of electricity, spoiling food, lack of heat, or worse, I am thinking about you.

Hurricane Sandy!

Storm preparation! Fill everything with water including the tub, lots of canned and dry goods, candles and batteries, and that shiver of excitement when disaster is nearby but not too nearby, since we live on the highest elevation in all of Brooklyn.

I'm sure you all know about the hurricane, officially named Sandy but code name Frankenstorm, that is currently thrashing the northeast and our beloved hometown of NYC (except perhaps our European and Australian readers). We are all indoors today, since the subways are closed down. And August must feel the barometric pressure, as he refuses to get out of his sleep sack and runs over to us whimpering at the slightest gust of wind. He's born out many a storm before, but somehow he can tell this is different.

Moke the cat does not care.

Where's my cellphone??

Do you know of the website Where's My Cellphone? This morning I had to use it. I had searched the apartment, and normally would text Paul for the location of any missing object (he has a thing that we call the "interesting place syndrome"). But this time of course that was not possible. And that's where the handy dandy website comes in, and I used it for the first time, and lo and behold! Miracle of miracles! I heard my phone, ringing in the bathroom.

Would that have happened before I had a child?
Unknown.

All I can say is, thank you wheresmycellphone.com.

My own August's room in a magazine!

This post is so self-centered. But there is something that makes you all shivery when you go into a bookstore and rifle through the magazines for fun, and stop, all shocked, because there, there in the printed object you are holding in your hand, is your child's nursery. (Please excuse the so-so photos, I took them myself, but in the magazine they hold up pretty well.)

I had completely forgotten that the magazine "Pregnancy & Newborn" had contacted us for photos of August's room—it was months ago, and I wasn't positive the photos I took were good enough for publication. And so it passed from my mind, until this past Sunday. Will this be in every bookstore? In every ob/gyn's office? I hope they forget to remove it, that it slips to the bottom of the pile, and then some poor pregnant woman gets so sick of all the usual ones she digs down and opens this one.

The producer of the sneak peeks, Lauren Brockman, gave the nursery the tagline "Natural, cozy and dripping with imagination". I feel so happy that someone got that impression of it. In person it's not as slick as the photos make it appear (which maybe is good). Even my best crafts are made by someone who feels that if it looks good from across the room they shrug and say Eh, good enough. Strings of hot glue hanging off? Who cares!

We did not decorate the nursery before August was born. There was only a crib, a used changing table, my ten year old dirty sofa, and some branches still drippy from snow. I made my brother drag those in two weeks before my due date because anytime I sat in the room I was overwhelmed by its ugliness. It was a hilarious trek, my giant belly preceding me into the snow-covered park, and then my poor brother lugging back branches that were nigh trees. The nigh-trees were so big they didn't fit in the elevator so he brought them up 6 flights of stairs. He is the best brother in the world. He was my best man at my wedding.

The other nurseries are lovely, beautiful, calm, or dancy with pattern and gold. I am so flattered to be included in an article that also shows Joy Cho's daughter's room, as in Joy from the blog Oh Joy! I bet Joy didn't get nauseated by her soon-to-be nursery, I bet she had that thing in hand! How could she not, with her taste?

This past weekend at the cabin

Fall is a special time at the cabin. In the northeast the big tourist draw is foliage season, this evanescent time that you might miss no matter how well you plan your vacation. Here in the city there's only a scattering of yellow and crisped brown leaves on the trees, a few floating down when the wind blows. But up in the Catskills there's a skim of bright yellow all over the place laid over the still-deep green of summer leaves. The birch leaves are the first to go, fluttering down. I kept looking up wondering what that shadow was, some loopy bird that couldn't fly straight, but it was always another leaf swoop-swoop-swooping down back and forth.

There's also a photo of my favorite toy horse. I have a lot on the porch up there.

Thanks a lot, Accuweather

Saturday morning.

Saturday afternoon.

Thanks a lot weather forecast—soaked in the morning, canceled plans in the afternoon.

Bungalow details

I think every detail in our friend's Rockaway bungalow is perfect. She leaves the window open so much that ivy is creeping in to investigate

Our friend's bungalow in the Rockaways

Downstairs, perfectly weathered leather couch

To the second floor

Bedroom right up the stairs

Writing room off the bedroom complete with bouncy ball

View over my knees from the bed out to the porch

View from the porch