The 50mm f/1.4 USM is back, and this is from the first batch of Dashiell pictures I took with it.
Finally
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Subway Riders
Only for those with an interest in the mundane and/or public transportation: Amy and Dash from stop to stop.
Cranberry Scone at Steeplechase
This is Archer’s idea of sharing: breaking me off the occasional bit of pastry he otherwise nibbles full time at point-blank range. Our Saturday morning tradition is gaining momentum: wake and walk down to visit the local baristas at Steeplechase, he for his ‘kids hot chocolate’ and I for a black coffee. These guys brew a good cup; we are lucky to be so close. And when we’ve finished, we chase pigeons down the sidewalk or slowly sidle past the ornate headstones in Green-Wood Cemetery or read all of the street signs we can find. But usually a little bit of all of these.
Helicopter Kick
Our new apartment is on the second floor of a house in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn. Our landlords live below, and they can certainly hear every creaky floorboard, every nighttime crying fit, every Archer-stomping-monster, every nail going into the backside of the formaldehyde-soaked pressboard products we’ve been assembling for weeks. They have kids too and have asked us not to worry about the noises that small children make in a second floor apartment. But that thumping noise in the overnight hours. That one that keeps waking them from sound sleep. Could we look into that? Could we do something about that?
Those who have lived with me (wife, roommates, siblings) know the sad truth. For at least 20 years now, I have kicked my bed uncontrollably in my sleep. It is a methodic, rhythmic kicking. While on my stomach, my right leg levitates, hovers momentarily, and crashes down on the mattress with full force — 2 or 3 times a minute. I do not wake up, no matter how hard the bed shakes. I have kicked my foot bloody on the foot of the bed without waking. For many years I was sure the kicking habit resulted from the draining and disposal of my 70s-style water bed when I was only seven. But now I know it must be a neurological flaw. Something along the lines of Periodic Limb Movement Disorder. Completely involuntary and unmanageable (I did try Mirapex, to no positive effect, in the early 2000s). Amy has learned to live with it. My landlords have not.
And now, dear reader, it appears that my youngest son has begun to exhibit signs of wild, involuntary leg kicking too. It must be part of my genetic contribution. Let us hope it is only a phase. As evidence, I present Dash’s Helicopter Kick:
EDIT: involuntary was probably not the right word for Dash here
Greenwood Playground
Around the corner from our new home is Greenwood Playground, and on this extended holiday weekend, we find ourselves spending even more time here than has become usual.
Instead of chasing pigeons today, Archer decided to chase little girls. At least one of them appears on the bridge in the video above. Otherwise, not a ton of action here. Just a brief window into how we’re spending the time, and some irrefutable evidence that late November weather in New York has been absurdly mild.
A Much Larger Sandbox
Archer takes a long walk and reflects on his new East Coast life, with some inspirational background accompaniment.
Between the Plains and the Planes
Time is really running low for opportunities to explore Indiana from our Lafayette home base. Many months ago, while browsing the federal and state parks sites as well as that of the Indiana DNR for unknown, proximate natural refuges, I came across a reference to the Granville Sand Barrens. I even marked it on a map to make sure I would remember to visit, but that was over a year ago. Fast-forward to today — midday there was a fairly unsettling incident involving Archer, a tripod, bacon grease, and my camera — it was clear we needed an excuse to venture out of the house. So, Archer and I resolved to make the 30 minute trek past Shadeland while there was still daylight enough to do so. I really should have bothered to read the various online reviews of those who had gone before. Had I done so, I would have known that a friendly dog would locate our parked car at the entrance to the sand barrens and would demand to accompany us throughout our visit. Instead, the presence of a strange dog really just threw me off my game, so I convinced Archer it would be better to gaze at the sand barrens from inside the vehicle.
We took the opportunity of our visit, however, to explore the surrounding area on wheels, and we came across some historical markers for both Granville and the nearby Wea Plains. Having read the markers to Archer, I was subsequently obliged to indulge in a short rendition of “Two Kinds Of” — a queue to the boy that he has yet again successfully identified an English homophone:
“Wea Plains?” asked Archer. “I like planes!”
“No, there are Two Kinds Of plains. Sometimes planes are machines that fly in the air.”
“And go down a runway … ”
“Right, and go down a runway. And sometimes plains refer to flat land, like all of the flat farmland you see out the window.”
And then I started to feel really guilty about having shorted us both on the visit to the sand barrens, so I offered him an alternative: Would you like to go to the (Purdue) airport or do you want to go to the park? I can’t believe he picked the park, but it gave us a great excuse to stop in to nearby Fort Ouiatenon. Once out of the car, we slipped down to the Wabash River and looked for smooth stones to skip. Archer then demonstrated aptitude for picking ‘poison’ berries from a nearby bush (his words). And we perambulated until we had visited each of the park’s kitschy monuments: the blockhouse, the flagpoles, the cement bread oven. By then, it had grown considerably dimmer and cooler than when we had set out, and so we packed it back in with a few rounds of Ladybug Picnic.
Lafayette by Wagon
We bought the wagon for Archer a year and half ago on his first birthday, and it has provided us opportunity for many post-dinner neighborhood trips since. To those with access to relatively quiet streets and/or even sidewalk pavement, I highly recommend these things. It is one matter to go for a walk around the block, but entirely another to go “for a wagon ride.” I suspect our beloved red wagon will be one of the larger artifacts to accompany us to the city, and I’m looking forward to treating Dash to the lush interior of the Radio Flyer once he is old enough to sit up under his own power. But for now, Archer rides alone, and this will be our last Lafayette autumn with the top down. It is absolutely the first of last four, however, during which we have been assaulted by a fusillade of falling walnuts (some pictured). Worse, the largish, semi-firm green-brown nuts attract wagon wheels and surprise lawn mowers by congregating in the tall grass. Actually, the season is starting to feel just a little overly precious in light of the changes to come: When will I mow again? Will there be a chance to fire up the grill once more? And it’s hardly worth mentioning that we surprised ourselves and lunched on the patio at Jane’s Deli today, probably for the last time.
Waning Days in Indiana
There are very few picturesque Indiana days left for us. We ride out October in Lafayette and will make our transition to Brooklyn sometime in early November. The leaves have largely changed here, but the weather is still warm. Amy, Archer, Dashiell, and I headed out to Battle Ground, Indiana, and the Wabash Heritage Trail today to expend a little energy and to enjoy a little of what’s left of our midwestern existence for a while. In his usual way, Archer experienced the park, the monument, and the nature trail lost in his own world: rushing ahead without heeding warning calls to slow down (pictured), and pausing to enjoy digging for loose roots on the sandy creekside paths.