The Little Guy



Infant

My grandson Patrick has crossed a threshold. He has outgrown infancy and become a bona fide newborn. Just like that. From one day (#90) to the next (#91) – according to at least one source. (Experts have been known to disagree on the semantics of baby development – baby being the all-inclusive moniker for one-day-olds to one-year-olds). 

Newborn

Actually the little guy (my terminology for my grandson from birth to, at least, marriage) increases his baby-bilities week to week – the usual time between our visits together. Currently, with more than a dozen of those seven-day spreads behind us, he no longer sleeps the entire time between feedings and changings.  Lately he gives Grammy his attention at least half the time she spends in his neck of the eastern Massachusetts woods . And he has left behind his wobbly infant helplessness , moving on to intentional newborn movement: a stretch to reach a bright toy, the examination of a familiar face, a grasp of a baby bottle. 
 

Best of all, he is developing a personality! He likes to laugh, especially at the monkey face that is positioned atop the frame of the baby-mirror in his crib. Try as I may to get Patrick to look at himself in the mirror, he fixates on the monkey instead – and chortles, loudly, as if he is watching stand-up comedy performed by the E-TRADE toddler (toddler being the generally accepted term for talking baby,   digitally enhanced or not).

 

 
 

THE E-TRADE TALKING BABY

 

Cooking Up a Storm



Put a plate of home-made pasta in front me and I’m back in my mother’s kitchen. I can see her roll out a mixture of flour and eggs, flatten the dough through one side of her pasta maker , and  cut it into strands on the other. Then she’d hang the soft noodles on a tabletop wooden tree to dry ( just a bit ) before boiling  them ( just a bit ) al dente.

Up to about a week ago, Mom’s homemade pasta fit my narrow notion of comfort food: hearty helpings of homemade favorites that bring back the past. This week, through the arrival and departure of Hurricane Sandy, my notion of food as nurturer expanded. 

I wasn’t cooking up old family recipes as round-the-clock updates on Hurricane Sandy played on my small kitchen TV. I was cooking up a storm, trying to make perishables more edible, before the likelihood of losing power. Exactly a year ago I was one of 850,000 Connecticut households without electricity and heat for over a week, due to storm Alfred. I can't remember ever having gone more than a day or so without power before then. I was completely unprepared for the storm shutdown.

This year, I expected the worst. So, as Sandy moved up the coast toward New Jersey, I kept my kitchen in New England humming. By early afternoon I had roasted Brussels sprouts, mashed butternut squash, and steamed carrots. While the aroma of onions and garlic (being roasted with the sprouts) permeated the house, I mixed a batch of cornbread and, as if to challenge Sandy’s “slow-moving” system, put a small rack of spare ribs in the slow cooker – on high. I didn't want to get too cocky. Yet, what did I have to lose? If the power went, I’d at least have real food to warm on the outdoor  grill and share with whomever needed sharing.

The cooking kept me busy. Focusing on preparing the meals kept me calm.  I was prepared for just about any inland havoc the windy side of a hurricane could wield. That was a big difference from last year's storm.

Fortunately for me, northern Connecticut was spared. My lights never even flickered. Not so on the coasts of Connecticut, NYC, and New Jersey, all of which Sandy ferociously huffed, puffed and blew boats to land and houses and boardwalks into the ocean. There has been devastating life and property loss.

When there was no word from my cousins in Staten Island - an area being reported as the most severely hit, I feared the worst - until yesterday. That's when I saw the photo below posted on Facebook with the status: Cooking for Staten Island. The picture of my cousin's busy kitchen told me all was as well as it could be. It looks as if fresh clams are about to be shucked by the younger generation of cousins. One of the girls is peeling a potato.

Cooking for Staten Island

I'm guessing a generator powered the cook-in. The boys own a gas station!

 That said, the Island still requires a continued rescue and recovery effort, along with the hardest hit areas of NY, NJ, and CT. A dear friend of mine in NJ posted a much less comforting  status this morning:

I don't think anyone outside the area really gets how bad it is around here. And it's ongoing, with food shortages, gas rationing, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, people thrown out of work.

She urges those who want to help to DONATE TO THE RED CROSS.


 

Bad to Worse: My NY/NJ Cousins in the Wake of Hurricane Sandy

Morning after Sandy in Great Kills, SI
a nydaily news photo

Fortunately, my Brooklyn cousins  retained power after Hurricane Sandy. Cousin RK is housing her nephew’s family, who had to leave their New Jersey home. Another cousin who resides farther away from the city and coast, lost trees and siding. He  is making due with a generator.

CF, who lives on Long Island, had no house damage, but her power has been out  four days now. Trees are down everywhere in suburban Wantaugh  There  are no traffic lights, so driving is a problem, and gas and ATM machines are hard to come by. Thanks to having a gas stove & gas water heater, she’s been able to cook and bring hot food to her dad's house, nearby,while her mother-in-law resides with her during these difficult days. Yesterday CF posted:

Day three & counting. No power and a bit chilly. My heart goes out to those who lost everything. This is going to be a long haul. Patience and kindness is mandatory.

I am so proud of her resolve and focus.

My gravest concern, right now, is for my Staten Island cousins and their families, most of whom reside in the Great Kills area – an area that seems to be the forsaken child of the NYC rescue effort. Last night’s national news cast a Hurricane Katrina perspective on the lack of relief efforts in Staten Island.

The boys grew up in Great Kills, across the street from the  Marina. My aunt still lives in the neighborhood, the boys close by.This video, found on youtube yesterday, offers a look at the area the morning-after Sandy’s arrival and departure. It provides a disturbing visual answer to my question about how hard-hit their neighborhood was. I can even see the damage to the harbor side restaurant we celebrated my aunt's 80^th birthday at earlier in the year.

I pray their families have relocated, that the gas station they own is able to serve the neighbrhood fairly and peaceably, and that they are all one step closer to recovery today.

The Weather Gods

photo from wikipedia

For over 24 hours now I’ve been warned to prepare  - or else - for the brunt of a perfect storm that has been forming just off the coast of New Jersey. Perfect in the eyes of Aeolus, maybe, the Greek myth blusterer credited with handing a tightly sealed sack full of winds over to Odysseus. With the winds bagged, the seas stilled, allowing the Greek hero to continue his ten-year journey home to wife and son after the Trojan War.

 If only Aeolus could keep the fury of this week’s “perfect” alignment of hurricane and northeaster under wraps. Mortal meteorologists lack the Greek God’s sacking powers. Instead, today’s forecasters have been relying on “ spaghetti models” (a new term for me - not to be confused with a Spaghetti Westerns) in an effort to anticipate Hurricane Sandy's strength and whereabouts. These models chart intertwined webs of all possible storm scenario.

The spaghetti model for Hurricane Sandy looked a lot like  a Christmas ornament my son made from cooked pasta noodles in nursery school.Based on the twists and turns of the loopy model, Connecticut Governor  Dannel Malloy has called  Hurricane Sandy “the most catastrophic event any of us have seen in our lifetimes” and “the largest threat to human life this state has ever experienced.”

By now, one would have to be a fool not to have evacuated coastal residences, as we wait for the worst of the storm to blow in and out through the night. Governor Malloy is no God of the Winds; he can’t quell the storm.

I hope in the morning we can call him the God of Hyperbole.

Storm Warnings

photo from ABC
 

Mother Nature seems to have developed a grudge against my birthday.

Last year, storm Alfred blew in a day or two after my birthday, downing tree limbs and power lines through most of the state. We remained powerless for over a week. Even Halloween had to be cancelled!

Friday, as I turned another year older, I was greeted by continual warnings on TV to prepare for the worst – three days before the worst would materialize. Hurricane Sandy was heading toward New England.

I agree forewarned is forearmed, but I could have done without the melodramatic station promotions repeated after each storm update.  One of the station's ads featured music that reminded me of the haunting theme to The High and the Mighty, an iconic disaster film of the Fifties.  As the tension in the music built, the local meteorologist announced , “We stayed with you during tropical storm Irene.  We’ll stay with you through this one.” Then, this morning, as the hurricane moved half way up the coast, a morning anchor on the Today Show point-blankly told Al Roker, “I’m really scared.” Not my idea of helpful storm reporting.

Yet, I do admit, once again I find myself  at the mercy of Mother Nature and, once again, I am at a loss to know what to wish for.  If I wish  for Sandy to stay away from me, do I inadvertently wish for her to more  greatly impact my  NJ and NY relatives and friends? That’s not what I want.

So what do I want?

I want to be forewarned but not terror- stricken, prepared but not panicked. Reasonable warnings got me  to clear my porch and fill  my gas tank. Thanks to early warnings I’ve got blocks of ice in the freezer and lots of water.

I don’t like storm warnings taking control of my day, but I heed them. If the governor's stark warning directed me to evacuate - I would. But please, just tell me what to do and spare me the melodrama.
 
Here are some sensible measures to get us all through the storm.

Frankenstorm: How to Prepare for a Hurricane

Mother Nature At It Again




Charles Richter developed

the scales that

measures earthquake

intensities

Last Tuesday night I pedaled away on my exercise bike as I watched a one-day-old broadcast of The Daily Show. Halfway through the show I felt the floor beneath me vibrate. At the same time, the bookcase beside me shook. I heard slight thumping.

Thinking back, I’m stunned by how many thoughts a mind can harbor, at once. As the earth moved that night I thought, in no particular order

a.   What’s the dog doing’? (Because the thumping sounded a little like the repeated rhythm Winnie sometimes pounds out with her hind leg)

b.    Was my furnace acting up – as in red alert acting up?

c.      Why would someone be using a jackhammer in my backyard at 7:15?

During that sweep of thought, I got off the bike. Ventured downstairs to the basement where the furnace sat, silent. Then I headed back upstairs, out onto the porch and yard, where no jack hammerer  appeared.

Still wondering (as in, with great relief, wondering-in-place), the single pulse of the phone in my pocket drew my attention. Turned out to be an alert for a prescription ready at CVS.

I went to the phone’s FACEBOOK newsfeed.

My house just shook…?????

Did we just have an earthquake?

So that’s what that was! Soon a Facebook status linked to a CNN report about a 4.0 temblor that hit around 7:12 p.m. Its epicenter was about 20 miles west of Portland, Maine. That’s just over 150 miles from me and my exercise bike. According to later reports the Maine earthquake shook buildings and rattled dishes, but as far as I know, caused no injuries or serious damage.

My daughter, who lives an hour closer to Maine, didn’t feel a thing. Her friend, who lives 50 miles farther away from Portland than I do, clearly felt the tremors. She was settled into her third floor apartment, I had been pedaling on my second floor, and my daughter had been in her first floor living room. I wonder if our flights made a difference.

Mother Nature let us off easy this time - not like just a year ago when a freak October snowstorm became just heavy enough to turn my lights out – along with most Connecticut households’  -- for almost a week! It even cancelled Halloween.

Tuesday evening's tremor didn't amount to much. Ten to fifteen thousand earthquakes of this intensity occur every year. Why, greater rumbling was felt across the nation, just hours later - during the second televised presidential debate.

 

A Cousin Encounter of Another Kind (The End)

 Bensonhurst housefront - similar to where I grew up

Did I want to drive by the Brooklyn house I grew up in?

You bet I did!

In less than five minutes my cousin drove north (I think) up Bay Ridge Parkway onto 18^th Avenue, and then 78^th Street, towards the El and New Utrecht High.  

I sensed a familiarity on the street I hadn’t been on for close to forty years.  About two-thirds of the way down, I recognized four wide cement steps that led to a doorway I’d crossed in and out of - daily - as a kid. There'd be no crossing through it today. The four-family house had been left to another cousin, even longer out of touch, who’d sold the property some time ago.

My cousin double-parked for a minute or two. Transfixed by the landmark, I thought of the many  times I had aimed a pink rubber ball at those steps way back when, my young friends positioned on the sidewalk ,readied for a catch. If one nabbed the rebound on the fly, I was out. Otherwise, every bounce earned me a base in our game of stoop ball. Baseball without a bat - or field. Just cement steps and sidewalk.

We drove on. 

Now as I think back, I realize my aunt, cousins, and I played our own game of street ball that day - on a makeshift field of memory.  First base in a Brooklyn bakery, we were just warming up as we  shared photos of the newest born  - my Patrick, their Anthony - on our Smart Phone apps. Approaching second, around Rosanne's kitchen table, I learned of my Uncle's miraculous recovery from a stroke ten years earlier and his tragic battle with cancer, only a year after that. By early evening we rounded third as we dug  deeper into the past at a local ristorante. Over appetizers and entrees, presented like works of art, we compared our own recollections of the stories we had lived and the stories we'd been told. And still we reminisced -  over dessert, espresso and the requisite anisette.

Home run.

By nine I was driven  back to Penn Station and on an Amtrack train headed north to New England. Back in my own bed by midnight.

What a day!  I 'm  grateful my cousin Joe located me through Peoplefinder.com. He reopened a window to the past with his brave phone call, and at the same time gave us a future to look towards.

Is there a long-lost cousin you'd like to contact?

 

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