We Are Safe


We are safe. And dry. And, miraculously, we never lost power, just sat with our flashlights at hand just in case, playing backgammon, drinking wine, and eating fried green tomatoes from the last greenies we pulled off the vines in the backyard before Sandy ripped through them.

I feel lucky, but most of all I feel connected. Though we haven’t left our apartment (we are listening to you, Bloombito), we know what’s up. Would I ever have thought to say… Bless you social media. Never before have the social networks seemed so, well, social. Not just the connectivity of cracking real-time-jokes during the debates (though that was awesome), but actual updates as to what is really happening exactly where you care about it. Feed as Sustenance. Want to know what’s going down in every neighborhood? That’s a job for Instagram, where everyone is an embedded reporter. Jared’s shot from Ft. Greene, above, and Renee’s Trees-down-in-Prospect-Park, Anne’s Churning-Post-Storm-Cove, Lucy’s View-of-Downtown-Manhattan-with-No-Power, and Julia’s New-Park-Bench-in-Cobble-Hill: Want to know what’s actually going down in Rockaway? There’s Katie Honan (a random social media maven who also just happens to be a girl from Rockaway) whose twitter feed confirmed that Sweetheart’s block wasn’t on fire, and whose page she set up to share information is hopefully right about the actual status of the Marine Park Bridge. And the best way to know if the people you love are safe? Their morning-after-Facebook-status-announcements:We’re still putting back the pieces (actually we’re trying to bake a birthday cake with ingredients on hand for Sweetheart’s little brother who, so far, has spent his birthday avoiding downed power lines), but, bless you social media, for your pure populist power and for—however illusory—making us feel safe.


Author: loiseaufait

Little by little the bird feathers its nest, and object by heart burnished object we surround ourselves with lovely necessities of memory and function. It is these things that make a silly Apartment a Home or a silly Wednesday an Occasion. Whether my nest is an old farmhouse, a sixth floor tenement walk up, or a brownstone basement... whether I share it with family, vagabonds, women of heart and mind, or a little brown cat and a sweet ginger banjo, my principal joy is filling it with light and laughter (and corralling).

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