Stacy Horn

I had to stop getting trees due to the cats, they just destroy them and all the ornaments, and “oh my god, what if one of them swallows a pine needle and it gets stuck in his throat??” There is no peace in a house with a Christmas tree and a cat. But, but Christmas trees!! Pretty!

If I was going to get a tree, this is where I’d go, to Jane Street and Billy Romp and co.

You’d think there would be tons. There was a lot of interest in the place, if only for the lurid stories about the Lunatic Asylum. But I’ve found so few photographs of the institutions on Blackwell’s Island (now called Roosevelt Island). I’ve checked all the usual places, but I suspect there’s a treasure trove somewhere, in the attic of a descendent of one of the Commissioners of the Department of Public Charities and Correction, or of one doctors who worked there.

If anyone knows of a source, I’d love to hear about it!

This is the Lunatic Asylum. The only piece of it left is the part of the building called the Octagon, and it’s part of a luxury apartment building.

I passed by this window on the way to choir practice. It’s hard to move on when he announces people like Steve Bannon as his Senior Counselor, and Jeff Sessions for Attorney General.

The New-York Historical Society has a collection of records from the New York Foundling Hospital. Among the collection are five scrapbook of notes from parents and others about children who were left at the Hospital. Most are simply heart breaking. I spent an afternoon copying a selection that I plan to research. I picked ones that had some information to go on, and names that were at least a little unusual. Maybe I’ll be able to track down the families and learn whatever became of them.

Here is a letter from a father who kept writing about this son (more below).

Sadly, I didn’t need to research what became of him. His last letter says it all.

I’m not including the one I’ve already started to research. I found the family, but not the baby yet. But here are a couple more.

A picture I took from inside a taxi, when I was taking Finney home from the hospital. I’m actually already looking back on that day with nostalgia. Surgery had gone well and I was taking him home, full of hope for the future. Finney is doing well, but I still wake up every morning unable to accept that Fuckface von Clownstick is the president. How can this be??