2012?

Historically speaking, the ringing in of a new year in my life involves my good friend Andrea and her men,

both cute

and cuter:

[Love those guys...]

As always,

there were games,

yummy treats,

and much hilarity.

Really.

There may also have been some pandemonium:

Maybe.

The rest of the weekend involved our other New Years traditions: 

after meal tea & cookies,

technology,

a wee bit of shopping, 

and

pork & sauerkraut dinner 

(this year with their good and lovely friends).

Though 2012 seems an impossible number, 

it arrived with all possible cheer.

I'll take it as a hint of what's to come: 2012 indeed.

Yup, the Star

You might remember that in recent history there was mention of a little itty-bitty being the star of every show, from here on out, forever and for always.

This Christmas did not prove this prophecy wrong; approach any photo album of any one of my family members, and you will find--at maximum--a mere three out of who-knows-how-many pics not centered around:

the sweetest, cutest, darlingest baby in the world.

We enjoyed teaching her many things this Christmas, 

including but not limited to:

how to properly stuff a stocking

[which she understood the importance of immediately],

how to deal with the Kooistra gift-bag tradition,

how to unwrap that really-quite-unnecessary-but-oh-so-fun-to-chew-on wrapping paper,

and how to say thank you when you have.

We also felt it was important for her to learn

how to claim what's rightfully hers,

 how to claim what's rightfully not,

how to de-ornament a Christmas tree,

and--just maybe--something else, which may or may not be:

Yup.  She's one of us alright.

When the night was over she got tucked into her cozy car and soon into her bed, but--since I live that life of luxury--my time with her was not at an end.

Later that week I joined my parents in their babysitting task, 

quality time that allowed this no-longer-so-bitty-but-quite-the-itty star to learn how to get the most out of Good Housekeeping,

that Grandpa sounds remarkably like her stuffed duck,

and that people really will sit and watch you play if you just:

remind them every once in awhile how happy you are to see them.

She has--without question--changed the history of this family for good, and she is--also without question--the sweetest star.

Friendly Historicity

While we're on the subject of historicity, 

let me remind you of this great friend that has played a large role in mine:

Being NJ based, 

Kristen and I made sure we had time for a reunion,

and met up at this historical mill,

aptly titled 'The Red Mill'.

 We scoped out all the historicity this place had to offer--

including this one room schoolhouse--

before wandering into town for lunch,

followed by a piano pedagogy planning session over yummy chocolaty drinks in a cozy basement shop, with stone floors and roaring fireplace nearby.

By the time we parted ways

the day had joined in the historicity of the place,
with the promise that we'd keep its welcome in mind as a future meeting spot.

It was friendly, it was historific, and it was good!

Falling for these Falls

So, since I promised that there would be more of those falls, I'm here to come through.

When I was a child, my aunt taught at a school located in an old mill across the street from these falls.  Once a week, I'd go to the school for my piano lesson with her.  Hence, this view was an unquestioned piece of my childhood.

During my Paterson tour, my very excellent guide opened my eyes to just how limited a view this was, by driving me around to the other side.

This, is what we encountered there:

Astounding power,

loud, but strangely still;

frozen, but living.

Radiance,

brilliance,

authority.

 Notice how everything is coated in ice?

The ice crystals that hung in the air settled on the trees and the grass as far as they could travel,

as if to say:

we belong here.

I absorbed all of it through every one of my senses, and thought:

I do too.

Family Historicity

So, I told you that my great-grandfather worked in the silk mills, but I didn't tell you what he did.

This oversight on my part potentially allows you to know how I felt for many years, since up until a little while ago that was all I knew.  Until, that is, an extended family member gave us this book

and blew us all away.  

Full of  fabric samples

and elaborate sketches,

the book was my great-grandfather's scrapbook of all of his designs.

That's right, he designed the silk that was manufactured there,

which is completely different from what I pictured over the years, when family members would mention that he 'worked in the silk mills'.  I always--with a child's penchant for romance, and a misunderstanding of which side of the family we were talking about--imagined him hauling coal or some other grunt work like that.  

Turns out, however, that the man was a silk designing genius.

 If we return to the museum (and the genius of Marlo's explanations) we see this machine that punched the design cards,

the first draft of which you see in 'the book',

and the final product of which you see hanging to the right here.

The design was marked on the cards, 

the cards were punched, put into the machine , and

voila, historicity.

Of the family kind.