Stacy Horn

I’ve been reminiscing about my undergraduate days at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts and Tufts University. My interest was photography, but in the beginning you have to try other things, and I loved everything I tried: painting, drawing, sculpture, wood-carving, making furniture. I wish I had saved something, anything at all, but I am the opposite of a hoarder. Nothing makes me happier than paring down my possessions. But I’ve been a little too toss-happy throughout my life, alas. I wish I had one measly drawing to show for it all.

I console myself with how quickly possessions become meaningless after you die. A couple of generations and no one knows who you were. Quick! Name your great grandparents! Unless you’re the genealogist of the family you probably can’t. My paintings and drawings, had I saved them, would just end up in the garbage or in a flea-market somewhere.

But for now it would be nice for me, when I remember what a great time I had, to be able to look over at a painting, and remember the classroom, the smells, my clothes spattered with oils and turpentine, the teacher I had a crush on.

Does Finney remember the mice of his past? Actually, I know he does. Occasionally he goes over to the stove, where he last saw a mouse a couple of years ago, and he sits and waits faithfully, as if the mouse might one day return. Every cat I have ever had does this. I do not discourage them. “That’s right Finney. You wait right there. This is a good use of your time.”

Sometimes I just can’t bear an unhappy ending. I started to watch The Changeling last night and it was quickly so upsetting I knew I couldn’t bear it if it got worse. I googled the story it was based on, the Wineville Chicken Coop Murders, and mother of God, that is the worst story I’ve read in a long time. I immediately deleted The Changeling and watched 13 Going on 30 instead.

I think I’ve uploaded different versions of this picture before. Every time I walk up Broadway and see this view I have to take a picture of it. That’s the Chrysler Building of course, but to the right is the Grace Church spire, and to the left, that triangle thing, is one of the Zeckendorf Towers.

I don’t really need to go, but I’ve been researching coal mining and Gwilym Amos and the Orpheus Glee Club (now called the Orpheus Choral Society) and now I’m just curious to go to the place I’ve been immersed in for months. The mines are gone, but there are remnants. There’s also the Luzerne County Historical Society and the Anthracite Heritage Museum, and maybe I can uncover some more information. It’s just a little over three hours away.

If nothing else, maybe I can get a hold of a better picture of Gwilym Amos. This is a copy of a printout from a microfilm reel of a Welsh newspaper called The Druid (year 1924). He has descendants. Maybe they have something they’d be willing to let me scan.

“I cried many times. I’m still crying. I had a very hard life.” That’s from Growing up in Coal Country by Susan Campbell Bartoletti. I think Gwilym had a nice life though, mostly. His father on the other hand, not so much. According to Anthony Brooks, the Executive Director of the Luzerne County Historical Society, it took only a generation for the Welsh to get out of the mines.

So while William Amos may have been crying right until the very end, his son was probably singing.

Backstory: Last week I found a hurt pigeon on the street. I brought down water and food, but he wasn’t moving so I put him in a box, took him upstairs and called New York City Pigeon Rescue. Because his leg appeared broken they told me to call the Wild Bird Fund. The Wild Bird Fund said they’d set his leg, but their hospital was full so I’d have to take him home afterwards. I panicked—feeding him was hard and I have two cats—but agreed. Part of me was glad, I was already attached to the little thing. But he turned out to also have a broken wing so they took him in order to manage his pain and food. I miss him, but I was especially glad to hear that they could manage his pain, poor little guy.

Last night they emailed me: Your little one is looking good. He is standing pretty well on the leg with the recent fracture of the femur. He’s also moving his wings pretty well. But I will not be testing the mend until more time has past. Though I refer to the bird as he, I do not know its sex as yet.

So I’m happy. It looks like he’s going to be okay, and will grow up to annoy New Yorkers who have a thing about pigeons (he’s only 14 weeks old I was told).

I’m walking to the grocery store and all the streets are blocked off, as if for a parade. What holiday is it, I’m thinking when I remember President Obama is in town. After I’m done shopping I daydream about possibly getting a shot of the President as he passes through my neighborhood when I walk straight into a movie shoot. And Alexander Skarsgard (not literally, alas, damnit).

He looked right into my eyes but his eyes were so inhumanly, glittery light gray-blue I froze and missed the shot. I did get this one. Lucky girl! Look at this guy. I mean, seriously?