It's been a long time.

But who cares. It's sort of gloomy out today. A good day for an Anis Mojgani pick-me-up. (His most famous one, nonetheless.) Shake the Dust:



"This is for the ones who are forgotten - for the ones who are told 'speak only when you are spoken to' and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself - do not let one moment go by that doesn’t remind you that your heart beats 100,000 times a day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make every one of you oceans. Do not settle for letting these waves settle and for the dust to collect in your veins."

My (Practice) Baby Turns One

it's been nearly one year since i wrote on my stupid little blog and today i was close to deleting it all together...but i think that this occasion calls for a hearty (and heartfelt) post.

tomorrow marks one-year to the day that i almost gave birth to a baby. and by almost, i mean my bff (and future co-owner of the cutest shop in the world) ce-ce gave birth to a baby girl --- whom i like to refer to as "my baby." don't think this is creepy, cecelia totally embraced my vicarious motherhood from the very start. (cecelia is really more than a friend, she is like family. she took care of my grandmother during the years that i was out of town, giving my mother a few hours of respite a few days a week - how many friends would do that?) here is a picture of cecelia, me, and the shirleybird:



here is cecelia at one of her baby showers, with terry. she was super-cute pregs, even though she didn't think so at the time:

during the weeks leading up to the birth, i called cecelia incessantly and left post-it notes near her door instructing her to call me as soon as she went into labor. she must have hated me at this point. all of my coworkers knew that if i were to randomly get a phone call and run out of a meeting, it was because i had received word that my almost-baby was on his/her way.

here is a picture taken the day after she was born. she was beautiful from the very start:


a few words about ella: she is very smart. she has a sneaky grin in which she furrows her brow and crinkles her nose and the best way to describe it is something like..adorably evil. i've noticed that when she smiles like this, she's often twisting her hands (mr. burns-style) as if she knows a secret and will never tell you. she is a perfect mix of the doctor and the artist -- what a lucky baby.

it is hard to imagine that it has been a full year since ella was born. here is a little video of her celebrating her first birthday (note the miniature cake), a few days early:

and here are a couple of photos of her looking insanely cute:



maybe "almost" is the wrong word. maybe it's more like "practice baby" that i mean. ella is my practice baby. i get to practice going to the baby section of old navy and buying baby clothes for her (i can't help it!)....and i get to practice strolling around gibbs street with a sleeping baby...and i get to practice finding/remembering the best baby books ever written. i just don't get to practice the hard stuff (like getting up in the middle of the night, and endlessly running after a new-walker, and wiping away frequent tears). ce-ce and terry are doing a perfect job of that, and i'm grateful to just be able to witness it sometimes.


happy 1st birthday, ella.
can't wait to bake those mini-cupcakes with you, baby.

love,
juju

Before I Bought It...

Here are a few pictures of the house before I had officially decided to buy it. It's funny to look back and see how many changes have already occurred. The porch, for one, looks a million times better after sanding and scraping and painting. The upstairs bedrooms are currently completely torn apart, as the ceilings are being redone. These pics were taken in late March (thanks Kate Fleche): Pictures of 3699 pre-Julia

Architecture

Looked this up on the Landmark Society's website, and they were super-accurate in their depictions.
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My House (built 1890):

Queen Anne (1870s-1890s)

The Queen Anne style is characterized by a rambling floor plan, asymmetrical design, an eclectic mixture of materials, and an informal atmosphere. Distinctive traits include the combined use of brick or stone with shingles and clapboard, decorative exterior woodwork, steep gables, large and elaborate chimneys, round towers and turrets, bays, porches, and stained-glass windows.

Modest single-story versions of the Queen Anne style are sometimes referred to as Victorian cottages or Princess Annes. You'll find wonderful examples of the Queen Anne style in the Park Avenue area, the Prince-Alexander-Champeney-Kenilworth (P.A.C.K.) neighborhood, the 19th Ward, and also in the South Wedge.

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My Parents' House (built 1924):

American Foursquare (1900-1920s)

Built to offer the most house for the least amount of money, there may never have been a more popular or practical house than the American Foursquare. Typical features of the Foursquare are a boxy, two-story body, hipped roofs, dormers, front porches, and deep overhangs. Most decorative features were saved for the front porch which could reflect either Colonial Revival details or Bungalow elements. A front-gabled version of the Foursquare is often found in the same neighborhoods or adjacent to the hipped-roof version. These houses usually feature the same or similar floor plans and like the Foursquare, have few architectural details except on the front porch. You don't have to look hard to find numerous examples; try the 19th Ward, Beechwood, and the Culver/Merchants neighborhood.

Committing Place-ism

"'Locality gives art,' said Robert Frost, and any step we take to bring back locality, to resuscitate the parochial, is an act of hope and love and beauty."

That quote is taken from an article by Bill Kauffman that appeared in Utne Reader in 2000 - "Passport to Main Street." I don't generally agree with Kauffman, a paleo-conservative, devout Catholic anarchist who glorifies progressive activists like Dorothy Day yet aligns himself most closely with Ron Paul. As a social democrat who believes strongly in single-payer health care, Kauffman's anti-federalist arguements are lost on me. But what Kauffman is most well-known for--being a "localist"--is something I too can align myself with. Kauffman's essays focus on tradition and "place-ism." [The fact that he is from upstate NY and attended the University of Rochester helps to woo me towards his side...] In a nutshell, Kauffman's view of localism promotes honoring your roots, committing yourself to the place and the people you come from, beautifying your neighborhood and getting to know your neighbors. He knocks the idea of moving elsewhere for a better job, or better pay, or for the thrill and excitement of some place "new."

"Passport to Main Street" has crossed my mind many times since I first read it several years ago. Living back in Rochester has brought issues such as urban renewal and brain-drain to the forefront of my social consciousness, and when I think of young people leaving my city--including nearly all of my childhood and high school friends--I cannot help but think of Kauffman's words:

"...they sent their children out to earn college degrees, whereupon they took jobs so far away that, in millions of sad cases, grandparents had been stripped of any function beyong shipping video games to the little brats come Christmas. But at least the grandkids attend good schools with lots of computers and high average SATs. This whole notion of moving somewhere to take a job is one of the sharpest and cleanest of class dividers. Virtually everyone who lives and works in Washington or on Wall Street has migrated for money or power. It is almost beyond their ken why someone would not move when 'opportunity' rears its meretricious head."

To be clear - Kauffman doesn't knock the idea of traveling, or the importance of seeing other places. I myself was eager to live in a new city once I graduated college, and grateful that I had the chance to do so. For seven years I lived in four cities other than Rochester; I didn't intend on being back in my hometown so soon, and I am still open to living some place other than here again for a period of time. But this growing trend of leaving the place you come from and never returning again--or of raising your children in a city where they have no grandparents or relatives of any sort - this I do not understand. Why? Because other cities are more beautiful or have better architecture? Because they have more shops and nicer restaurants? Because you can make more money?

When I was deciding whether or not to buy this house, I thought often about my love for Rochester and my spoken commitment to this city - and one of my deciding factors in going forward with the purchase was the desire to truly put my money where my mouth is - to walk the walk. If I am to promote my city to friends and strangers alike, then I should begin by investing in it myself. (As Ghandi said, "our contributions to the world's progress must therefore consist in setting out own house in order first.")

Buying my house was meant to be my first real contribution to the place I come from, my first act towards renewing and beautifying the place that I love and the streets that nurtured me. Yes, sometimes I regret the decision--particularly these days, when real construction is underway and it's hard to envision the completed project. But I return to my original reasoning, knowing that I did this, ultimately, as an act of 'hope and love and beauty.'

"When the subject has refused allegiance, and the officer has resigned his office, then the revolution is accomplished. Buy from your neighbor. Grow your own. Turn off the TV. Vote for Pat--or Harry or Joe or the Greens or the lady next door. Read your ancestors. Put flowers on their graves. Paint your block. Avenge what is lost; laugh. Commit place-ism. With joy and impunity."

the estate

i bought a house. it's a big house, with four bedrooms and three fireplaces and a library. it has a wrap-around front porch and green shutters and a turret (from the Italian word toretta, "little tower.) it has fruit trees--apple, peach, pear and quince. it has raspberry bushes and grape vines and a basement door that leads out to the garden.

i bought a house with 65 years worth of scrap metal and old wood stored in its basement and attic; with hundreds of jars of old, homemade jams and fruits and tomato sauces crammed in its cupboards; with trunks full of irish linens and floral, embroidered hankies.

i bought a house, and in two weeks we filled an entire dumpster with just a fraction of what was inside. the plates and glasses and candleholders and encyclopedias and records and maps and nails and ice skates and skis and suitcases and desks are all still in there, waiting for me.

i bought a house on the street i grew up on. i bought the house next to my parents' house, the house i grew up in. i bought the house i used to walk by as a kid, whose windows i peered into, trying to sneak peeks past the red curtains of the library, to see the shelves of books that lined the walls. i didn't intend to buy a house. i didn't even intend to be back in this city yet, but here i am. this blog is about the house i bought. (we call it "the estate.")