today

I've spent a lot of time trying to decide if I would write about 9/11. What could I possibly say that hasn't been said already. For ten years now, the whole of September has been filled with blogs, articles, tv shows, radio episodes and special editions about 9/11. What is left to tell?
Except to not say something, living here, now, this year, is like ignoring the elephant in the room. It is everywhere here. It permeates everything. It's in the recorded and repeated warnings in the subways. "See something? Say something!" It's in the hole in the skyline and the cranes that are building the tower to fill that space. It's in the poster that hangs in the window of the fire station next door with the faces of the firemen lost. And the fact that every day since we have moved here, there have been fresh flowers in a vase underneath it.

Everyone has a story about that day. And I'm no different. I can still remember standing in our bedroom, watching the Today show while I got ready for work and shouting for Will when the second plane hit, right there, while we were watching. Although we were on the West Coast, in Portland, pretty much in no danger at all, I called the school where I worked to see if we would be open. It felt like the world was ending and I honestly couldn't fathom teaching that day. But the school was going to be open, life had to keep cranking along.

I taught the oldest class at our school, fourth and fifth graders. My kids were the only ones who were really aware what was going on that day. They looked stricken, terrified. One boy was frantic, not understanding that his father, who was driving home from Seattle, was in Washington State, not Washington DC. Or maybe he didn't understand that they were different places in the first place.

We kept a TV on in the lounge and dashed in and out all day, unable, like the rest of the country, to look away. One of my fellow teachers had two sons living and working in Manhattan, neither of whom she could get a hold of. In the end, they were both fine, they had somehow found each other and had walked for hours to get home. But it took the entire day to find out, and we all walked past her room holding our breath, not knowing what to say.

I doubt there is anyone who was alive in America who wasn't profoundly affected by that day. For Will and I, it was an unstated but underlying reason to start a family. And judging by the fact that Briton's class has always been miles bigger than the one before his, I don't think we were alone.

But I can't say that it affected me the way that it did people who were here that day. I had a few hours of panic, and a weight of horror and grief and thankfulness that I didn't know anyone who was killed, which sat in the pit of my stomach for weeks. But compared to what people went through here- on the street where I live, in the city where I'm raising my kids- my small pains were nothing. If I tried to say otherwise, I would be worse than a liar.

It feels somehow, fraudulent, to be here now, not having been here then. On Monday, Labor Day, I was coming up from the basement with our laundry and stopped at the lobby when I heard, of all things, bagpipe music, loud and clear, through the old elevator doors. Out on the street, some fifty pipers and drummer stood in small clumps, some from the fire department, some from the NYPD, some from a group of Dublin pipers. I ran up and got Will and the kids and my camera and we hustled down to watch and listen and snap photos. We stumbled on a concert on Memorial Day and I assumed this was something similar, probably somehow connected to 9/11, because what wasn't? But when Briton and I eventually wandered over and asked, a gruff fireman told me they were about to play for a Mass at St. Johns for the lost first responders. Suddenly, I felt horrible. Standing on the street with my children, pointing and taking pictures as if we were watching a Fourth of July Parade when, without a doubt, every single person on the street was there because they had lost someone that day. We went inside, because as much as I would have loved to stay and listen, or walk over the the cathedral and participate in the mass, it felt wrong, somehow. Like crashing a funeral.

I know this day is not just about New York. It's about everyone. It hurt everyone. Some day my kids will be able to say that they were here on this day. That they listened to the music and the names and they knew, even at five and nine, that this was not an ordinary Sunday. But I can't help feeling that this is a good time to stand quietly out of the way. To watch and to listen and tell my children, but also to let the city have its chance to just be sad.

To remember

snippets from the week

This morning on the way to school, I noticed that the ginkgo trees that line our street are all fringed with yellow edges. Fall.
Most of this week was centered on getting ready for school to start (and not start) as in "can I go to school today?" or "Is it the first day of school yet?" And now, two days in, it's become routine. "That's what we always do on school days mom!" Like walking on the wall.
Or making a quick detour through the pocket garden across from the cathedral.
Briton, this morning, requested that we buy him some black pants "Because some days I like to wear all black." How did he become a New Yorker so quickly?
Have you heard of guerrilla knitting? I keep seeing it but I didn't really realize what it was until yesterday. I might have to try some :) This one was mostly knit from plastic bags.

Speaking of projects, fall ones are underway around here. Yay! Bring on the pumpkins!
The cool thing about New York is that some days you walk out of your door and its raining, some days you walk out and it's sunny and beautiful, and some days you walk out and there are fifty bag pipers standing in your street.
And what can you do but stop and watch?

and we're off

She said "I want you to stay!" But I told her the teacher said we had to go. She smiled and said. "OK" and went to sit on the story carpet without a backwards glance. Leaving the three of us (yes, even her brother) a little teary eyed as we walked home.

tomorrow

Tomorrow, everything will be different.

Tomorrow Evie will be the one who heads off to school, while Briton stays home with me, making play dough and baking cookies. Ok, we probably wont be making that much play dough in fourth grade, but you get the picture.

The uniforms are made, pressed, and hanging in my closet. I still have another dress and another skirt to make, but these will get us through for the time being. I'm also still knitting a little vest for chilly mornings which should be done in a day or two. School supplies are bought and packed up and after a little snafu with LL Bean which resulted in a lost order and a subsequent backorder, a replacement backpack (with a ladybug on it!) has been chosen and is now hanging on a hook in the hall. Last night Evie told me she couldn't stop rolling around at bedtime because she "can't wait for school!" Which is, of course, exactly how I want her to be. But secretly, I'm a little sad. For five years she has been my go to girl, staying home and hangin with mama while big brother is off at school learning. And tomorrow, it will be Evelyn who walks out and heads to school.

On the flipside, tomorrow, Briton will not be heading off to school. Tomorrow, homeschooling begins.

I'm not quite sure I'm ready on that front.

I mean. I'm technically ready, I suppose. I have a fairly specific game plan for the week and a general plan for the next few months. But I still feel wholly unprepared. Will will go off to class, Evie will go off to kindergarten, and there Briton and I will be, trying to decide how to fill up our day.

Looking at it from this end, the before it even begins end, I'm excited and a little bit terrified. I want this year with him but I'm also worried, just a bit, that it will fail miserably. It could go either way, I suppose.

Here goes...

singing out loud

I've had an epiphany. A New York epiphany. It happened on one of my walks over the weekend with the dog. I almost never bring much with me on our walks beyond my keys and a poop bag. And maybe coffee. Mostly because I usually head out in, essentially, my pajamas. Yoga pants and a t-shirt. Or if it's hot, a t-shirt dress. And neither of these outfits has pockets, so what I can bring is slightly hampered. But while the kids were gone I got myself up extra early, got dressed and did some work before taking the dog out. So for once, I had pockets. And since I had pockets, I brought along my phone and plugged myself into some Pandora for my walks.
New Yorkers, young and old, walk around the city beheadphoned and ipoded up every day. The white earbuds are everywhere and there is also a strong giant-old-school-earphone contingent as well. I had always assumed that New Yorkers were just more musically inclined. I mean, everywhere else you go, you will see people plugged in and zoned out, but not like here. Here it's EVERYONE.

So there I am, walking along, listening to the Glee Cast radio (don't judge me. I love them) and suddenly, I realized why people here consider earphones an essential accessory in their daily attire. It's so you can ignore people. No, really. I know that sounds awful. But actually, it's kind of wonderful. For the first time ever, I could just walk by that weird guy who sits on his stoop and asks me everyday if my dog is a boy or a girl (if I had something more common, like a lab, I'd understand this, but in three months of daily walks, I've met two other springers, both owned by the same guy and definitely NOT living in the Columbia Student Housing vicinity). I could breeze past the Amnesty International/Planned Parenthood/Greenpeace/Charity of the week children who stalk the sidewalk and pounce on anyone who they can, launching into their spiel as your grocery bags start to leave permanent indentations in your fingers. I can even stand in my own elevator with the lady from the second floor who stares at me like I'm going to eat her children while her own little dog gnaws on my shoe and not feel that awkward silence.

It's brilliant.

But it also poses two problems for me.

First. I have young children. Most of my walking around in the city is with them in tow. And while I certainly have my share of smile and nod "um hum, that's interesting" moments (just kidding! I listen to EVERYTHING my children say. Promise. See. I'm listening now. Lego, Lego, Pillow Pets, Lego, Fort, Dragon, My Little Pony, Evie-pushed-me-Briton-wont-share, AHHH MY EARS ARE BURNING, GIVE ME MY EARPHONES!) Ahem. While I perhaps don't always listen to every word they say as we walk, pulling them along with earphones in might seem a bit...neglectful. So unfortunately, I have to resort to finding whatever my children are saying vastly interesting whenever I need to just not talk to someone who wants badly to convince me to sell my gold jewelry.

The second problem is that I have the burning desire to sing along.

I know. Pathetic.

But you see, for what is basically now a decade, I have been with my children all the time. During this era, the ipod has become as common as shoes, so people without children have learned how to comport themselves while listening to music out in public that only they can hear. I, however, never had an ipod. My iphone is really my first encounter with this. The closest thing I ever had was a Walkman, a few mix tapes and the recorded books version of Emma (I told you! Don't judge. Muuuummm, Mr. Knightly....)

This lack of practice combined with some lingering feelings about musical theatre from my high school days means that when I do, occasionally, wander out into public with music bopping along in my ears, I have to try really hard not to burst out into song. You can probably understand now why I love Glee so much. Them's my people.

A few weeks ago I saw a guy walking down the street singing at the top of his lungs. At first I though "weirdo" and then, when he yelled "Yep! I'm SINGING OUT LOUD!" I though "Run away, major weirdo!" But now, I totally get it. Sometimes the some is just too good not to sing out loud.

Am I alone here on this? Anyone else suffer from a "I really want to sing to this, no, no, must be normal" problem when they listen to their ipod?

snippets from the week

After last weekend's excitement, the rest of the week has seemed a little dull in comparison. Although driving to Brooklyn in our rental car at the beginning of rush hour was a little hair raising, come to think of it.
But totally worth it. How else are you going to stock up on Trader Joe's canned goods (too heavy to carry home in bulk) pop into IKEA for some new water glasses now that you have broken almost every one in the house and pass right under Freedom Tower?
We also passed this sign. It's from the same storage company that had this ad and as it turns out, that's their thing, these kind of ads. I've decided to try to hunt them all down this fall. I'd particularly like to find the one that says "Love means never having to say 'I'm sorry my kickball trophy fell on the baby again'" I need a picture of that. For posterity.
Speaking of signs, I actually saw this last week taped to a telephone pole near our apartment but I forgot to post it. I love it. I wish I could meet the person that hung it because you just know they have to be awesome.
Before we left for Vermont, Briton asked us each to pick out an animal we would like to see while we were there. Evelyn said a snake, Will wanted to see a beaver, Briton choose a bear and I picked a moose. I'm the only one who go my wish (thank goodness!)
This was the view behind our Motor Lodge. Not what you'd expect. I wanted to go have a wander but, you know, there was the whole hurricane/flooding thing going on, so I'll have to wait until next time.
Burlington has a downtown pedestrian mall very similar to the one in Charlottesville. I think Will said they were actually designed by the same person, and I believe it, they look almost identical. Close enough that the kids were confused a bit about where we were.
The Magic Basement strikes again. Well, technically it was the magic pile in front of our building. But it had just been hauled up from the basement, so it counts. We have the same chair in black but with the swirly base at Will's desk and it's very comfortable. I'm not really sure what I'm going to do with it, at the moment it's my new bedside table, but I couldn't pass it up. I also scored a thick white shelf that I'm currently using as a backdrop for some craft photos for a job, but eventually I think it will become the much needed, behind the couch shelf to help hide the mass of boxes we have stuffed back there and give us a place to put drinks when we are lounging.
Sweater done! I had to wait to finish it while Briton wasn't here so that it would in some way be a surprise. I didn't quite master the art of elegantly grafting the underarm stitches, but it will do. Now my problem is that I want to give it to him NOW! Except then I'd have to knit something else for him for Christmas and I've got too many other projects waiting for me to do that. Must. Resist.

Happy weekend everyone!

oh vermont

It's funny how you can live in a little bubble of your own existence and not really see the world around you. The day after returning from Vermont, we were swept up in unpacking, restocking the fridge, washing clothes, returning the rental car and repacking for Will and the kids flight early the next morning. We never turned on the radio or the TV, not once. But after they climbed into their cab yesterday and I had had enough coffee to combat the fact that I had woken up at 4:30 in the morning, I sat down to check out the news from up north.

When we were in the thick of it, perched on a hill in a hotel without power, it was hard to know what was going on in the rest of the state. Roads were closed, yes, we knew that, but sitting up there stranded, we couldn't really tell what was happening everywhere else. Even on our drive up to Burlington and then down along the New Hampshire border, we really didn't see much in terms of destruction. It's only now, that we are out of it, that I'm realizing just how terrible things have gotten up there.

It's ridiculous to say this, but I already love Vermont. All my life, there have been places that felt instantly like home. The first time I walked out of Victoria Station in London, driving away from the airports through the green green fields of Western Ireland, emerging out of the Columbia Gorge and seeing Portland opening up before me. And winding our way through the Green Mountain Forest in Vermont. The whole time we were there, Will and I joked about how at home we felt. As if we could breath better there. (Which, technically , is probably true if you think about New York air vs Vermont air, but this was more of a state of mind). On Saturday, after breaking down our tent and cruising the lake in a canoe, we hung out in Bennington, a really sweet little town that had the best Fish and Chips I've eaten outside of England, local rootbeer (Briton's new favorite treat) and two yarn shops on the main drag, both of which I visited (I couldn't help myself). In one, which was connected to a cafe- even better -they were knitting a community blanket. Or communally knitting a blanket. Everyone was welcome to add a few stitches. And while I waited in line for coffee and talked to the owner about cotton yarn for wash clothes, I knit a row. And I wonder now if that blanket survived, if that store is anything recognizable to the charming place I stood on Saturday afternoon.

I am an Oregonian. I wasn't born there, and on top of Oregon I've lived in California, Idaho, Missouri, Texas, Virginia, Ireland and New York. I've probably lived away from Oregon more than I've lived in it, or at least just about as much. But it's still home. It is the place by which all others are judged for me. And Vermont, which last week was just a small state far to the north, is the closest I've come to finding a place that I love as much as Oregon.
Everywhere we went in Vermont felt familiar. Bennington reminded me of the little town where I went to high school, Middlebury was perfect and beautiful and I wanted to stay forever. Burlington was like the best parts of Eugene and Portland had been mixed up and plopped down on a lake. And everywhere we went, people we overwhelmingly friendly. In the midst of disaster they smiled and offered directions to us, strangers trying just to get out of their poor, devastated state.

I feel a little helpless, down here, safe and dry, in the city, when they are covered in mud and broken buildings. I want to do something, but I don't know what.