Dad Today

The Charcoal Market

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 22 May 2012 14:30:00 +0000

Without close equal, the most disturbing place we visited during our week in Haiti was the charcoal market. It was like a scene out of Dante's Inferno.

On the way there in our white, air-conditioned van, Pierre described how some believe a country's ecological sustainability depends on its having at least twenty five percent forest cover.

"Haiti," he said, "has two percent."

Airplanes flying over the Dominican Republic into Haiti can see the border from tens of thousands of feet high. In fact, it's apparent even from satellite images. Even though the two countries are on the same island, divided only by a political boundary, that boundary is also now an ecological boundary. One side (the DR side) is lush, green - the kind of lush and green one would expect in the tropics, with rich, fertile earth, and ample sun and rain. The Haiti side is brown, brown, brown. Denuded. It looks like desert.

The number one culprit?

Charcoal. Trees cut down. Buried in pits. Smoked into a jet black, air fouling, lung compromising, dirty, dirty fuel that the vast majority of Haitians use to cook with. So the demand stays high and the industry robust, even though the industry kills the land, dries up watersheds, and literally robs families of the capacity to earn a living in the future.

Most of the country's charcoal now comes from La Gonave, a picturesque island (and part of Haiti) that lies across the water straight west from Port au Prince. When we arrived at the market, we all piled off the bus, and walked first to the water's edge, where, in the distance we could see La Gonave, and the impossibly beautiful scene of these classic wooden sailboats, anchored just offshore amidst glistening waters.

But there was nothing picturesque about the scene on shore. If there was sand or rocks at the water's edge, I couldn't tell. Because rising up from the water to where we stood was covered, every inch, with trash, which children and pigs picked their way through:

And then came the scene of the market. Young children, grandparents stooped with age, and everyone in between hauling and piling and transferring and loading these massive white bags of black, black coal, in the midst of coal-dust piles taller than men, the accumulation of years and years of this dirty business:

What few trees there were at the water's edge were coated black with the dust. And so were all the people. You can only imagine it coating their lungs just the same. And no hot shower waiting at day's end.

In the midst of it all, one of the most striking and lasting impressions I have was of Pierre speaking with one of the young boys working there with his family. Pierre did this with every bit as much grace and ease and respect as he showed speaking with the former Prime Minister earlier that morning. You can see it in this picture...

...which also catches me with a stupid grin on my face - my feeble effort to look at ease, a thin veneer masking the overwhelm, confusion, and dismay I felt being there.

The Plantation Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 15 May 2012 14:30:00 +0000

Before we left Moulin Sur Mer, we visited the plantation museum on the property. It was in the building that still housed the old waterwheel, which once powered the massive machines used to transform sugar cane into molasses. The owner and his daughter gave us a tour. "We can't move forward unless we understand our past," she said. And then they guided us through the images of a Haiti when Haiti was the most profitable of all of France's colonies - a period when it seemed not to matter how quickly African slaves were dying from the crushing labor and brutal treatment, because new boats of replacements were always arriving, their price was low, and the global demand for sugar was high and getting higher - no matter the rumblings here and there about abolition.

And the beneficiaries? The "Blancs" - that is, the whites, the mzungus, the gringos, the people who looked like me.

Some scenes serene and jarring from Moulin Sur Mer...

Brain Drain

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 08 May 2012 14:30:00 +0000

Our first stop back in the city was at the offices of FOKAL, a foundation working to bring positive change on all sorts of levels in Haiti. It's head is Michelle Pierre-Louis, who is also Haiti's former Prime Minister. She also teaches at the national university.

This I found to be her most compelling appeal for hope, and to "Just keep going" in the face of obstacles seemingly insurmountable...

"Each year," she said, "I ask my students, 'If you were able to obtain a Visa, would you leave Haiti for the United States?' And over ninety, ninety five percent of them say, 'I would go Visa or no.'"

And I remember thinking, "Who can blame them?" If it were me or my family, either path is fraught with uncertainties, I could see it being an excruciatingly difficult choice - but also very difficult to justify staying, to bet on hope and change, when so many hopes have been dashed, and so many of the changes have been for the worse.

Full Hearts

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 01 May 2012 11:00:00 +0000

After five years of this we should know by now there is no going to water with these kids without them getting into it.

A few weeks ago, after Drew's epic morning nap, and the rest of us continuing the assault on the long-neglected back lot, we made a day trip to Halibut Point State Park The water was freezing. It didn't matter.

"We didn't bring dry clothes for you guys," I said.

"I don't mind," said Maya, as James plunged in,

...and she followed.

...and soon Drew was squirming to get out of our arms and join the fun. There was no holding him back either.

And when all of a sudden it was no longer fun - "I'm so cold, Daddy," said Maya - I helped her out of her wet things and gave her my shirt.

It did the trick.

And as we made our way back, against the chill ocean breeze, I warmed myself with a happy baby in the ergo against my bare skin back, as we all scrambled across the rocks - me and Drew, James, now shirtless,

and Ashley - carrying the purple backpack now bursting with soaking wet clothes - led Maya by the hand, as the heavenly lights kissed them both.

That night at bedtime, lying there in the dark, James said, "Mommy, everything is right in my heart today."

"What do you mean, James?" she asked.

"I'm full of joy," he said.

"Me too," added Maya.

Me too.

We five.

Earthquake Proofing, Tents, Model Homes, and King Sized Beds

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 14:30:00 +0000

Even though Haiti's Presidential Palace is still in ruins, and 50% of the rubble from the earthquake remains, traveling about the country, we still saw quite a lot of construction and reconstruction under way.

Full disclosure - I know very little about construction or structural engineering. Still, the construction I did see struck me as flimsy. The basic and pervasive design started with a stand of four spindly poles of rebar marking off each corner of each room and each building, big or small. Even in finished or near-finished buildings, these poles were still apparent, jutting through roofs toward the sky. I didn't know if this was for style, or for lack of cutters or blow torches to finish the job, or for holding out the possibility of one day adding upper floors.

These stands of rebar were bound together by small metal brackets, are were then linked by rows of cinder blocks, held together by concrete.

And when the earth shakes? This was the remnants of a school we saw in the mountains several hours south and east of Port Au Prince.

Nearby this devastated school they were rebuilding a temporary replacement.

"What's different in how they build now?" someone asked Pierre.

"Now," said Pierre, "they build with six poles of rebar instead of four, and every five or six feet, there is a horizontal "belt" of rebar to give greater integrity to the walls."

My journal sketch of new and improved Haitian construction

"How much would those belts help?" I wondered. Some in our group claimed to have seen groups of six rebar poles jutting out from rubble of the collapsed school. I didn't notice - though driving around the country, I rarely spotted more than four.

The one notable exception we saw to this ubiquitous construction method was when we went to visit a field of model homes - developed as part of an international competition, in which designers competed to present (and a select few invited to self-finance construction of a prototype of) affordable, earthquake-resistant homes. The one we spent the most time in and learning about was this one:

Built on a cushioning bed of recycled tires. Its geodesic dome roof was all triangles. And its striking artistic flourishes - like the bathroom and shower in the photo below - showed other, higher uses for trash, in this case for plastic bottles, which, along with styrofoam food containers (thanks to international food "aid" that feeds for a day, but does nothing to boost local food production capacity) that litter the roadways, the waterways, and the countryside - as in the backdrop of these photos.

It was an amazing house. Inside, on a 90-plus degree day, it was cool and comfortable, with cross-ventilating breezes. And in a way it was hopeful to see on display the ingenuity and craftsmanship of this dynamic Haitian artist/architect/entrepreneur.

But as it turned out, the project was a huge waste of his money and time. Part of the project's initial draw was the possibility that designers would recoup their investments and then some, when the government channeled redevelopment funds into construction of huge numbers of the winning designs. But the program had started under the old presidential regime. And with the election of Martelly as President in 2011, the whole project was abandoned.

As we walked among some of the other model homes in the barren field only a few miles from where over half a million people still live in tented camps, we realized the most prescient designer was a Connecticut-based firm that never even bothered building a model. They just paid to erect a billboard with this picture of their home:

On the way back into Port Au Prince, just passed the airport, we saw the tents again. This time I also noticed one of the billboards rising above them. It was was an advertisement for king sized beds -

Like a cruel joke and, just like those model homes, a picture of the possible that is, at least from where things now stand, seemingly impossibly out of reach.

Whitewashing - or Not

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 17:00:00 +0000

From the mountains, we made our way back down, along the coast eastward, and back into Port Au Prince. As it happened, it was the day before the anniversary of the earthquake. Everywhere there were signs of a city frantically readying itself for its moment, again, on the world's stage, for the arrival of Bill Clinton and other dignitaries en route to mark the occasion.

I spotted the one and only garbage truck that I saw all week. And everywhere there were makeshift crews with hospital masks, raking and shoveling piles of trash into wheelbarrows. The median from the pothole checkered road from the airport was being filled with gleaming white stones - creating a simple, but distinctly improved visual contrast to the surrounding dusty grey.

My cynical engine by then firing on all cylinders, my initial reaction was "WHITEWASHING!" But as our group talked about the unfolding scene, someone mentioned the same treatment Boston had gotten in the run up to the 2004 Democratic National Convention, or for the visit by Pope John Paul years before.

So why shouldn't Port au Prince put its best foot forward for visitors. Don't we all clean as best as we can when we have company? And do our dinner guests cross our thresholds and think "WHITEWASH!" when they see cleanliness and order and not the typical chaos and mayhem of our three-kid, one dog household?

And so I sat too with the half-full view that the fact the government can organize this kind of activity is proof there IS actually capacity to make things happen.

And that is something.

Head, Body, Head, Body

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 14:30:00 +0000

There are few things worse than seeing your baby in a hospital bed - except maybe his being in a hospital bed and you realizing you need to be not only his comforter but also his advocate - demanding, for example, "Ok, ENOUGH with the nurses and residents trying their hand at finding a vein, no one, NO ONE is touching this baby but the attending physician!"

The day after Thanksgiving, as I was changing baby Drew, I noticed a grape-sized mass, surrounded by a dark red circle on his chest. It was warm to the touch. But he wasn't running a fever and seemed his usual, cheerful self. And, when we called to check in with the pediatrician, she didn't raise alarm bells. "Keep an eye on it," she said. Watch his temperature. If it spikes, you should come in to the ER, but otherwise, just call back in a few hours with an update."

So we gathered up the kids and the dog and Maya's SKUUT and James' bike and headed for the Cemetery, where, as it happened, we bumped into our pastor, there with her granddaughter, who had the same idea on that warm late-fall day. So as the kids rode, we trailed behind, walking and talking. At some point we mentioned Drew's little lump and red spot. And since our pastor's first career was as a pediatrician, we asked her to take a look. Sure, she said. And when she looked, she didn't freak out either - at least externally. But she also encouraged us to measure the mass and the red area surrounding it, and to be armed with that information when we checked back with our pediatrician.

So, we took her advice. And this time when we called, we related the measurements. The immediate reaction was, "GET THAT BABY TO THE E-R!" So, Ashley and Drew packed up his little purple travel backpack and headed off - fully expecting the worst part to be just waiting to be seen.

I didn't even join them - our house still full of Thanksgiving guests, including Pops and Grams who soon said, "Go if you want. We've got everything covered here." So, I did, figuring that, by bus and foot, I'd catch up at least in time to drive them home.

But that was not to be. "They want to give him an IV," Ashley texted me as I closed in on the #39 bus. By the time I arrived and got checked in through security, and found my way to them, a second team was just gathering to try to get an IV line into the tiny little veins of Drew's tiny little wrist, surrounded - like the rest of him - by a generous layer of baby fat.

I joined Ashley near his head speaking words of comfort as he thrashed and wailed and turned magenta and radiated heat, fighting against the nurse and nurse's aide pinning down his arm and legs, as another nurse tried to thread that awful, long, spindly needle into his tiny veins.

No luck.

They all disappeared and, in Ashley's arms, Drew soon calmed and cooled. He nuzzled into her neck and, when the third team arrived, he flirted with the nurses, until they readied to try again. This time they tried with the room lights dimmed, so they could shine a bright light behind his wrist and see the distinct little black vein against the orange glow of his illuminated skin.

There was more thrashing, more wailing, more tears, more magenta, and more hot, hot, baby.

And again, no luck.

"ENOUGH!" we said. "We need to talk to the attending physician. And we need to talk about options."

And so we waited.

"When the attending finally arrived, she explained that, while there was a shot they could use..." (and I thought, "A WHAT? WHY DIDN'T WE START A SHOT IF THERE'S A SHOT?" But then she went on), "...but the shot is much less effective. It deosn't diffuse as well as the IV. And with a baby so young, their immune system is still so fragile, the blood-brain barrier still permeable, and if that infection spreads, well, it could go from bad to worse very quickly..."

All of which was to say it was her strong recommendation to try once more with an IV specialist, which she could order right away.

OK, we said.

And we waited. And as we waited, I found myself thinking about the film, The Fighter, which we'd just seen earlier that week. And I found myself thinking of Drew in the light of that scrappy underdog. On the one hand, we were all so traumatized by each (failed) effort to get an IV in. Yet, in an odd way I also felt a surge of pride in my 12-pound son fighting off teams of trained professionals. "Head, body, head, body," I whispered to him, as we readied for his next bout. "Head, body, head, body, Drew."

Thank God, that last effort was successful, though he fought like hell again. So when they wrapped his whole forearm and fist in a diaper to protect the IV line, it seemed fitting to raise his little boxing glove high, and to capture the prizefighter in his victory pose.

And the winner is...H

But by morning the IV had fallen out. And when another team tried and failed and we said ENOUGH! again. This time, the (new by that point) attending suggested trying a more reliable if "pretty medieval" (her words) method of putting an IV line directly into his head.

Your best bet, she said.

OK, we said.

And it was awful, and looked awful. But it worked - that is, until it didn't. And then came the nadir of the whole experience - when the nurse, trying to gauge whether the line was still in or not by flushing it with saline, asked us, "What do YOU think?" as the saline caused a large and growing bubble to swell on Drew's head, and we said STOP! and, when she left, THAT WOMAN WILL NOT TOUCH OUR BABY AGAIN.

And then, finally, the (next) attending visited and said, OK, he's had two doses of the IV. Let's switch to an oral antiboitic, and watch it and hope it shrinks - which, after another night and another day in the hospital, it did enough that they gave us the OK to head home, which we did feeling not a little fried by the whole experience, but also grateful this was our first visit to Children's Hospital. And, no matter how rough the experience of being there, we were there for a here-today-gone-tomorrow infection, surrounded by kids and their families suffering from all shades of so-much-worse, very aware of how stupidly lucky we are.

At the U.N. - Port au Prince, Haiti

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 14:30:00 +0000

After a morning drive through the hustle and bustle of Port au Prince, we arrived at the United Nations.

Behind the high walls of corrugated tin, and then the whitewashed concrete walls covered in barbed wire, we walked single file through a security gate that beeped and kept beeping as each of us passed through, though no one tackled us or seemed much phased. So, we kept going, past armored cars, and groups of troops from all over the world, past an internet cafe, a bar, barracks and offices, and then into an air-conditioned meeting room, where we were eventually joined by Heiner Rosendal, Chief of Civil Affairs for the United Nations Stabilization Mission in Haiti (a.k.a., "MINUSTAH").

We spoke with Heiner for over an hour. It was a great education in the history of the UN's engagement with the country. Though, there were no clear answers about the future. What was clear, however, was that, despite the great hardships we had already witnessed, there were a powerful few deeply invested in Haiti's status quo.

On the way out the door, I noticed this poster on the wall by the door,

We Can End Poverty 2015 Millennium Development Goals

...and I wondered, "Come on now, can we really?"

From the UN, we headed out of the city and towards the hills, to an eco-hotel and grassroots nonprofit doing micro-enterprise and other projects for the people in that region.

I knew as we drove out of the city and up, up, up, the visit was meant to raise our spirits, and to stir hope in an idea that change could come to Haiti's cities from the outside in.

But after that morning with Heiner, and after driving through Port au Prince again, to say I was already skeptical is an understatement.

Live at the BCA Theatre...Dad Today (and Friends)

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 14:30:00 +0000

Just as I have been drafting a send-off (or at least scale-down) post about how, in the limited time I've got these days, the kind of writing I want to do is not actually THIS kind of writing, but playwriting (stay tuned...), selections from Dad Today and five other Boston-area blogs are being transformed into live theatre by the New York City-based Turnstyle Theatre Company - for a limited run, five performances only, April 4-7 at the Boston Center for the Arts.

For more info and links to the other featured blogs, click the graphic below or visit: http://www.blogoliloquy.blogspot.com/

Tickets available starting March 25 at BostonTheatreScene.com.

Besides Dad Today, blogoliloquy will also feature selections from:

I got a sneak peek at the script. They did a really great job.

Check it out. Get your tickets. Spread the word.

Candidly Cute

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 17:00:00 +0000

We always used to make fun of mom for her efforts to capture the authentic moments in un-posed, impromptu, we-all-see-you-there-and-no-one-is-talking mom candid photographs. Though I have to admit, the un-posed, impromptu, candid shots are sometimes best of all.

Like this one:

Dropping Maya off at school, we were late as usual, but please, daddy, please, daddy, can I show her the special tree? When I said yes, they clasped hands and ran together.

Or this, in the closing minutes of our visit with Gramma and Chris-Pops.

What a hit they were.

So, here's to candid photography.

Removed, Suspicious, and Wary

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 14:00:00 +0000

Life is so nuts and so FULL on so many levels right now, it didn't sink in I was really leaving the country until the night before our flight was scheduled to leave for Port Au Prince, Haiti via Miami.

My preparations had been embarrassingly minimal.

Sometime during the fall, I had found a free app for my phone to try learning some Haitian Creole. I used it a bit, though nowhere near enough - which was painfully apparent when we got to the village, and I got to experience the long, awkward silences, and slowness of time of a near total language barrier over two days with my host family ("near" and not just total thanks to few words of French I dredged from decades-old memories of Eastern Junior High School and Monsieur Kent)

James liked the app and soaked up the language like a sponge, which is how he picked up this clutch phrase:

clutch, that is, if haggling with cab drivers or killing time in red light districts were part of our itinerary, which they were not...

A few weeks before we'd left, our group had an orientation at my office in Boston. It included a whirlwind tour of Haiti's history - as a French colony (and the most profitable of the French empire); then, after a brutal revolution, as the first post-colonial free black nation in the world; born broke with terms of peace with France including payment of the modern equivalent of $20+ Billion - four or five times GDP - to compensate plantation owners for their losses. Mix in a few generations of criminally repressive dictatorships, and not exactly helpful "help" from aid organizations and wealthy nations like ours, and to say that Haiti was already a leg down when the earthquake struck is an understatement.

The morning we left, one of my travel companions bought a copy of the Boston Globe at Logan Airport. This article circulated through the group as we waited at the gate:

"Two years after Haiti quake, 550,000 still live in camps"

So, I was primed to see a place struggling. And because that's what I was primed to see, I expect that made the evidence supporting that view all the more apparent (and any hopeful signs harder to see or believe).

But those first days driving through Port Au Prince, I remember thinking - even though I had never seen a place decimated by natural disaster, I have been in poor countries before. I have seen poverty. So, the difference, I expected, would be one only of degree. But I was wrong.

In other places I've been, there has been a shanty town off by the airport, or a slum down by the river, or an encampment off by the railroad tracks. In Port Au Prince, there was no visiting and retreating from poverty. It seemed to be everywhere - which made the flashes of affluence even more jarring - like the juxtaposition of Porsche dealership with one of the city's many people-hauling "TapTap's" which are private pickup trucks outfitted with benches and brightly painted tin roofs, collecting fares from as many as they can pack in - like the "Matatus" we used to ride in Kenya, with strangers on our laps, and luggage and live chickens beneath our legs.

Some in our group had been to Haiti in June and pointed out ways they noticed it looking better. "This field used to be filled with tents too," said Madeline. "And that one, now empty - I remember thinking how lucky they were in the 110 degree heat, compared to others on the opposite side of the road. At least they had a few spindly trees for shade."

But there were still tents everywhere throughout the city. Piles of rubble everywhere.

Port Au Prince, January 2012

The Presidential Palace - "Haiti's White House," said Pierre - still looked as it looked on January 12, 2010.

Presidential Palace, Port Au Prince, Haiti, January, 2012

We passed by the stadium, which at one time, and for a LONG time, became tent-city home to many of the 1.5 million displaced. There were fewer now, though many remained. As we drive by, however, what was most eye catching were the stalls of colorful paintings, jewelry, soap stone carvings, and hammered-metal art along the roadside. "Is this a market?" someone asked.

"No," said Tanya. "There is no tourism to speak of in Haiti. But those who come generally want to come to see the camps."

But more than the scenes of wrecked buildings and crumbled and crumbling infrastructure, what struck me most in those first days, as we made our way about the city and into the countryside - and really throughout much of the week - was the looks and the vibe from strangers towards our group.

I have been inescapably conspicuous before - a white foreigner in seas of non-white faces. It almost always makes me uncomfortable - to come face to face with deep need, and to feel at once so powerless to do anything about it, and so guilty and confused about a world that has poured into me the resources and opportunities to be the one "bearing witness," taking pictures, taking videos, taking, taking, taking images, sounds, and reflections and ideas to write and to share with others far, far, away.

Yet, often that sense of discomfort is mitigated by a sense of welcome, and wonder, and even joy - particularly in the smiling faces and sparkling eyes of curious children, who swarm and touch, shouting, delighted, "Mzungu!" or "Gringo!" or whatever (it was near the end of the week in Corail, the first time I heard a pack of kids yelling, "Blanc!"), trying out their few English phrases, "HELLO!" "HOW ARE YOU!" or "GIVE ME SWEET!" or "GIVE ME ONE DOLLAR' and, when I try greeting them in their language, "Jambo?" "Beunos Dias!" "Bonjou!" they crack up, and jostle one another, as they walk or run alongside.

Even in Haiti, they did laugh, if just a little, when I said, "Bonjou," when it was already afternoon and I should have said, "Bonswa," or when I got it right and they asked back, "Komon ou ye?" and I just stared dumbly, smiling, first not understanding the question, then forgetting the answer. But in general - at least until our visit to the village of Corail, I never felt that simple sense of welcome, wonder, and joy. There was no easy connection, even with children. Instead, what I perceived was a sense of remove, of suspicion, of wariness - which was exacerbated, no doubt, by the fact we traveled as a group, arriving on what must have looked from the outside like a poverty tour bus - our large white van with its tall windows and doors all shut tight, its air conditioners blazing (except on the steep uphills), its passengers conversing, laughing, eating power bars and drinking bottled water, cameras and smart phones at the ready to capture the scenes whether we raced or crawled by, or sometimes just stood there in chock-a-block traffic, looking down on the foot traffic as it passed by looking up at us or, seeing those cameras, turning aside or backing away from our path.

But it was also due, no doubt, to a complicated history - both distant and recent - into which we were just beginning to be immersed.

I would be removed, suspicious, and wary too.

***

(Happy Birthday, Mom!)

Second-choices and First Words

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 18:00:00 +0000

It is a long while since I've ranted about being second-choice parent, although I clearly am again - and maybe more intensely so with baby Drew than with either of the other two at his age. Or, maybe it just feels that way.

Meanwhile, I've been reading Joseph Campbell's Hero with A Thousand Faces, which hasn't helped. The book is part of my slow-but-steady self-study and return to playwriting. It is a book of comparative mythology, tracing the grand narratives that recur again and again across cultures, across time. It begins with a hat tip to Freud and Oedipus and the idea of a baby's time with its mother as the closest thing he or she can experience to the serenity and peace and Zen of life in the womb - something that dads - forget it - not only can't you match that, but you are also the first RIVAL, the first and most frequent disruptor of the sacred mom-baby continuum. Good luck!

Even though I knew it was coming, it is still a bummer - for me and for Ashley both. She can't catch a break.

But I also know it will soon pass. In small ways it is already. And anyways, this is a nice consolation -

his first word...

Bieber and Spears Maybe They are Not

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 18:30:00 +0000

And that's OK by me. Can't fault them for lack of FEELING...

Haiti - Getting Started

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 18:30:00 +0000

Our itinerary in Haiti gave us a chance to witness, in one whirlwind week, nearly the full spectrum of life as it is lived now in Haiti.

We began at the top.

By the time we landed in Port au Prince and made our way through customs and onto the white bus that would be our second home for the week, the sun was setting. So our, first glimpses were of color and light as we blazed passed, with only hints of what lay behind in the gathering darknss.

Up out of the city center, into the hills of Petionville, and into the grand entry of the Karibe Hotel, where we were greeted by this scene in the sparkling, marbled foyer.

And as we stepped in, this on the ceiling up above us.

Back in the van and through the night streets for dinner at a rooftop restaurant called, "The View," then, while I knew Ashley was at home, waking almost hourly with baby Drew, I slept straight through the night.

The next morning, I went out on my patio to take in the scene. I heard roosters crowing, and soon the voices of children marching in line, in uniform up the hill to school. This was the scene across the valley from my room:

Tents and tarps and concrete blocks, and one grand home with sloping green roof, all gripping the steep slopes on the hillside across the valley from the Karibe.

Took this video:

Then staged this photo of my contemplative self:

Then made my way inside, and to the opposite side, where this view unfolded:

Under the warming sun and lush greens of the hotel grounds, I picked up a wireless signal and Skyped home to my family in Boston, at that point scrambling their way through the morning frenzy of breakfasts and jackets and boots and mittens and - don't forget Scout the Dog - and then into the car and off to preschool and elementary school then, with Baby D screaming his little head off hating the car and desperate for nap and...

I said goodbye, unsure when we'd be able to connect again, and then joined my traveling companions for a leisurely buffet breakfast. Then we checked out, piled in the bus, and headed out.

First stop - the United Nations compound....

Big Sis Service Excellence

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 18:30:00 +0000

When it's gooey brown veggie fruity mush for breakfast, the quality of the service makes all the difference. And this service is wicked good...

Feeling Bad for Not Savoring EVORY MOMENT? Don't.

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 21:30:00 +0000

For any parent who has ever stood steaming in line somewhere trying not to lose your cool, or just outright losing it as kids scream and run and cry and pull things from the shelves, while the baby in arms has blowout poo, and as he squirms in your falling-asleep arms, and as you realize you don't even have your wallet on you, and you haven't slept through the night in days, or weeks, or months, or years, and that sweet old lady looks at you with the knowing smile and winks, saying, "Oh, I just loved having children. EVERY MINUTE I loved it! Don't you?? You've got to savor it. It goes by so fast!"...for any part of you that hears that and thinks, "Is there something wrong with me I am not savoring this?"...an absolute must read from Glennon Melton, published January 14, in the Huffington Post

Don't Carpe Diem

Here's to the Kairos moments.

The tranbleman mwen

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 21:30:00 +0000

I started my January, 2012 on a week-long whirlwind tour of Haiti with a group of Barr Foundation Fellows.

As it turns out, we were there for the two-year anniversary of the earthquake - the tranbleman tè. On the morning we set off, the Boston Globe ran a story under the headline, "Two Years After the Haiti Quake, 550,000 Still Live in Camps."

Being in Haiti was an experience like I've never had before. It was intense. Depressing. Utterly overwhelming. It was also deeply moving. And despite the cynicism that crept in early and held on tight throughout the week making me wonder what good could possibly come from all the mess...despite all that it was also, almost impossibly, hopeful.

I have been back now for over two weeks, but I am still reeling. When I returned, life picked up at full speed at home (after Ashley kept ALL afloat during my long absence). So, there have been conversations here and there that have helped, but nothing like the kind of time and space it takes a guy like me to sit, and think, and sense-make through writing about it all - which I think is the only way I'll be able to make whatever sense I can make from the experience.

As I make and find that time, some of that writing may live here.

The night I came back to Boston, by the time I got home, it was late. The kids were all in bed and asleep. I crept up and into their rooms. And after kissing them all and pulling up covers, I stood just inside the doorway in the dark, watching and listening to their steady, peaceful sleeping breaths as I have so often done since they were brand new.

And yet there, that night, I watched and listened like I never had before.

And I lost it.

I just lost it.

"This is how it's supposed to be," I thought.

And it so isn't in Haiti.

It so isn't in so many places.

What a world.

Celebrity Cousin

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 21:30:00 +0000

It's not only the Lanfer kiddos buzzing about their newest cousin...

Until a colleague congratulated me out of the blue, and explained she'd seen this announcement on E-online, I had been mainly focused on what menus we'll prepare, and what helpful projects we'll take on when James and I visit LA to meet baby Micah. Now we are also practicing our paparazzi blocks.

The morning after we got the news, we Googled Micah's name to see what it meant - "Who is like the Lord" - and Ashley and I simultaneously broke into Micah's raucous, joyful theme song, which has been playing or is being sung by us and the kids on loop all week:

Welcome Micah!

Congrats mom and dad!

The True Meaning of Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 21:30:00 +0000

And the true meaning of Christmas is...maybe just maybe...

...somewhere in between this cute Christmas Eve scene courtesy of Boston's Old South Church...

...and this slightly disturbing but also cute morning after scene courtesy of one Aunt Mally...

Flying Baby Ready for Liftoff...

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 21:30:00 +0000

...but first a good look at his catcher.

From Oh Sh*t! to Shine

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 02:34:00 +0000

Our house is well over 100 years old. In 2007, when we moved in, it had quite a few rough edges. Some we dealt with right away. Other projects we took on in anticipation of the LG and then the LD's arrivals. But some things we just never quite got to. Who has the time?

And in time, we sort of stopped noticing anyway - except when guests were about to arrive, which is why, two weeks before Ashley's family arrived for Thanksgiving, the dinginess of the long-neglected upstairs bathroom was just too much to bear.

We remembered that, when we bought the place, our Realtor had suggested this not-too-expensive treatment you can do to re-glaze sad, sorry, dingy old tile-work like ours. It seemed like just the thing.

So, Ashley called around and found someone who could squeeze us in just in time for our guests. "The only thing you need to do," they said, "is replace any cracked tiles" - of which there were 10, maybe 12 in our bathroom.

And how hard could that be?

That weekend, as Drew had his morning nap, Ashley hit Home Depot and came back with what seemed like all the necessary tools and tiles. When Baby Drew woke up, I hung out with him and the other kids, and she went at it.

An hour, maybe ninety minutes later, Ashley came down with flecks of blood on her hands and a look on her face that was not a happy look.

"What?" I asked.

"It's bad," she said. "Come look."

I followed her upstairs and found the surprise she'd discovered lurking under those 10 maybe 12 tiles, which had become several dozen more tiles to reveal the full extent of the water-damaged nastiness:

And I thought, "Oh s%*t." And I thought contractors. And I thought expenses we hadn't budgeted for. And I thought who knows how many weeks or months before we have a working bathroom again.

It was a low moment.

But that night, Ashley called in the help of friends who actually know what they're doing. And the next day, she went out to the suburbs, where our friend Curt is rebuilding a fire-damaged mansion. And Curt gave her all the tools we REALLY needed, and a crash course in how to use them, and a timeline to get it done.

"I need them back in two days," he said.

And so, for the next 48 hours, there was even less sleep than usual and power tools and more trips to Home Depot, and on the second day, a clutch visit from Curt that prevented us from drilling in to unseen waterlines and flooding our entire house.

And then it looked like this.

And then another friend, though gone for the weekend, had a neighbor let Ashley in to their Mission Hill apartment to collect their tile cutter, which James and I had a ball with in the yard, measuring, scoring, and cutting, and then him racing them the tiles up to the third floor for Ashley to set them in place.

And then it looked like this.

And then, after twenty four hours for the tiles to set, and another twenty four for the grout to dry, and then overnight for the caulking, with no time to spare, the glazing guy arrived, and we all split - wow were those some powerful fumes. When we came back that afternoon, they were still overwhelming. So, as the thermometer dipped into the 30s, we put on jackets and hats and gloves and left windows and doors wide open to let the fresh air in.

But that next morning...

What a great idea!

What a wife!

Thinkers

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 21:30:00 +0000

Glad Tidings We Bring

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 21:30:00 +0000

Merry Christmas from the laughing Lanfers...

...the LD (2011)

...the LG (2008)

...and the LB (2006)

New Shoes Take II

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 21:30:00 +0000

Muck and water still irresistible, especially in new shoes.

Here was take I four years ago...

Social Norms, Petrified Wood, and Illicit Apple Gobbling

noreply@blogger.com (Stefan Lanfer) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 21:30:00 +0000

Last year I went to a conference on what it takes for people to change behaviors and to live more sustainably. It was in Sacramento, California and one of the keynote speakers was Robert Cialdini - author of Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion. His talk was on the power of social norms. One story in particular really stuck with me. It was about a test he'd run for the National Park Service in the Petrified National Forest.

The rangers were getting increasingly worried about how much petrified wood was being stolen by visitors to the park. They wanted some advice from this human behavior guru about how to change this alarming behavior. So, Cialdini and his team devised a test:

On a hundred yard stretch of trail through the park, they marked and carefully arrayed a set of steal-able pieces of petrified wood. As a base case, they calculated that 3% of the pieces were stolen when there was no signage at all.

Next, they arrayed the pieces again, and set out the sign the Forest Service had been using:

"Many past visitors have removed petrified wood from the park, changing the natural state of the Petrified Forest."

What Cialdini and his team found surprised them and certainly surprised the Forest Service. The percent of pieces stolen almost tripled - to 8% - compared to the base case. The sign sent a strong message that, "Everybody's stealing this stuff. Better get yours now before they're gone!"

A different message suggested a different social norm - one of shared responsibility and stewardship for a public treasure. It cut the rate of thievery almost by half to 1.7%:

"Please don't removed petrified wood from the park in order to preserve the natural state of the Petrified Forest."

I was reminded about this speech and this story earlier this fall, when we went apple picking north of Boston.

Near the entry to the orchard was an unmissable, hand-written sign on faded blue paper. It read,

"DUE TO WIDESPREAD THEFT, ALL BAGS ARE SUBJECT TO SEARCH"

While we didn't abscond with extra apples in our bags, thanks to Cialdini, I can now blame this sign and its unintended cues about the social norms in the orchard for any untoward gobbling of those crisp, juicy goods by these cute kids or their parents...

Can you blame them?