Another group of photos of the south half of Ellis Island.
I admit that this is personal for me. All four of my grandparents passed through the Ellis Island immigration station and the few times they mentioned it in my presence were in terms of the mind-numbing fear of (a) being sent back or (b) being found to be ill. Keeping in mind that three of them did not speak English at the time and the clerks there were famously bad with languages, it may well have been the worst day of their lives.
I worked on the rehab of the Main Building in the early 90s and got a trip to see the museum before it opened to the public. The dissonance between the high-def, large-format pictures of people somewhere on the spectrum between unhappy and terrified, and the adjacent happy-speak about new opportunities in a new land gave me a thumping headache. I’ve been told the text was adjusted a few years later.
Most of Ellis Island is landfill. The island now has a squared-off C shape, with the north arm of the C being where the main immigration hall is, the crotch of the C being the ferry slip, and the south half being no-mans-land. The south half is where problematic immigrants were stored, so most of it is a hospital where any number of people died in sight of their goal.
I’ve been there. It’s a combination of historic and depressing that leaves me at a loss for what should be done there…if, in fact, anything should be done there.
A one-day vacation is still a rest.
Got in the car and drove a bit. I’ll provide the name this pretty country stream at some point in the indefinite future,when I’m willing to risk it being overrun with tourists.
Some nice pix of the subway from the era when I was taking the 7 and 6 trains from Flushing to school. Some are a bit staged, but the levels of graffiti and poor lighting are accurate.
The man in the background is not me, it’s a friend, S__W. The little man with him is, of course, Mini__B. But never mind them – look at that HUGE WOODEN PANDA GROWING OUT OF THE TREE!
Mommy was late getting home last night. About an hour after she would ordinarily have been here, Mini__B decided to take things into his own hands. He handed me his (incredibly tiny) knapsack, and while I held it open, he loaded it with his favorite cars. He then put on his shoes, put on the knapsack, waved goodbye and went out in the hall to stare at the elevators, willing Mommy to appear.
Obviously his efforts were responsible.
“Pine cones? What pine cones? I have no idea what you are referring to.”
Mini__B, like all kids his age, is a walking petri dish. He sleeps through the night just fine except when he’s got a cold, which seems to be half of the time. So both Mrs__B and I have spent any number of nights with him on his bed.
One recent such night, he woke up first and decided to wake me by kissing me on the cheek, rather than his usual two-fists to the belly. My first thought was this cartoon (click to engorge):
If you’re unfamiliar with Krazy Kat, you have my sympathies and my recommendation that you address that failing immediately.
THIS IS GREAT!
Followed shortly by SOME HELP, PLEASE.
The sheep: Food!
Mini__B: Food! Or maybe an ambulatory carpet!
From G__S, pigeons eating a man in Paris:
Little bastards tried to steal my camera.
And they used to dance for portrait carvers.
I’m in a jungle.
Mini__B’s near a jungle gym.