nailed. It’s funny—and we’re good. Right, Coral?”
“I’ll let the New York Times decide.”
“Oh, them.” Mary Pat waves off the idea like a fat housefly. “You’ll see. This baby will run.”
Andrew assembles a series of opening shots for our Mermaid Day movie. He purses his lips tightly and stares at the screen. The only sound is the soft shuffle of clicks he makes on the images.
Mom and Dad have a small air conditioner in their office—not so much to keep them cool, but to keep the equipment cool. They are editing hundreds of hours of footage from their trip to Afghanistan. Renting the basement apartment to the Longfellows means that my dad didn’t have to take a second job this summer—and he and Mom can focus on finishing their documentary instead of having to pick up jobs filming events like the fireworks on the East River on the Fourth of July, or driving to reservoirs upstate to film the drought levels in Albany.
A wipe-off board, covered with notes in Mom’s handwriting, hangs over her desk.
Call Mary Murphy—news producer—has idea about sale
Dianne Festa has sell reel—call end of August
Disc 7—wobbly
Adam: Bob Barnett reps book tie-in author
Sometimes the things that Mom writes on the board stay up there for months. One of the first things I learned as a child, besides Never Wake Any Sleeping Family Member, was… Do not erase the board. Not ever. Never.
Dad has a metal stand filled with discs marked by day and locale, and organized by group. Sometimes their cameras recorded ordinary days, and sometimes they followed a group of news reporters into the worst zones of conflict in the war. My parents are so lucky that they weren’t hurt. It makes me appreciate what they do even more. Someone is always filming the news on the television, and sometimes it’s my parents. I appreciate how hard their job is—and I hope that the network uses their documentary as a news special. Mom thinks they have a potential buyer, and that’s good news for us.
I have had a desk in my parents’ work space since I was small. It started out kiddie size, and as I grew, so did the desk. Now I have one the size of my parents’ a farm table they found at a yard sale when we visited Dad’s family in Vermont.
Maybe this is why I love to make movies and edit them: I have a place to work and the proper tools to execute my ideas. Mom and Dad always took my ideas seriously. Making movies and being with my parents were more fun to me than dolls, dressing up, or playing board games. My childhood play has now become my passion, or at least, that’s how it seems. I’m sure it’s the same for Andrew. We’ve always liked working in my parents’ office, because everything we need to cut videos is here. And it’s free. And no pesky Bozelli brothers bothering us. And then there’s the lunch.
Mom brings a tray with thin-crust pepperoni pizza and Stewart’s root beer (a bottle for each of us) and puts it on a work table. “How about a break?”
Andrew is syncing up the time codes on our Mermaid Day video. “Thanks, Mrs. C.”
“How’s it going?” Mom looks over Andrew’s shoulder at the video monitor.
“We’re getting there,” he says.
“We’re trying to find the story in the parade. It’s coming off as just one flamboyant costume after another.”
“That’s what Mermaid Day is ,” Andrew says.
“We still need a story.”
“Sometimes you can let the images speak for themselves. They don’t need an over-veil. Just let the parade stand for what it is.”
“See?” Andrew grins. “Your mom agrees with me.”
“Don’t gang up,” I tell them as I click through to the steel drum band segment.
Andrew wheels his chair over to the work table. “Come on, I’m starving.”
Mom sits down with us. “So, Viola, I got an email from Marisol’s parents. You invited the girls for opening night? And you forgot to tell me?”
“I just floated the idea out there. I didn’t think they could
“I’ll let the New York Times decide.”
“Oh, them.” Mary Pat waves off the idea like a fat housefly. “You’ll see. This baby will run.”
Andrew assembles a series of opening shots for our Mermaid Day movie. He purses his lips tightly and stares at the screen. The only sound is the soft shuffle of clicks he makes on the images.
Mom and Dad have a small air conditioner in their office—not so much to keep them cool, but to keep the equipment cool. They are editing hundreds of hours of footage from their trip to Afghanistan. Renting the basement apartment to the Longfellows means that my dad didn’t have to take a second job this summer—and he and Mom can focus on finishing their documentary instead of having to pick up jobs filming events like the fireworks on the East River on the Fourth of July, or driving to reservoirs upstate to film the drought levels in Albany.
A wipe-off board, covered with notes in Mom’s handwriting, hangs over her desk.
Call Mary Murphy—news producer—has idea about sale
Dianne Festa has sell reel—call end of August
Disc 7—wobbly
Adam: Bob Barnett reps book tie-in author
Sometimes the things that Mom writes on the board stay up there for months. One of the first things I learned as a child, besides Never Wake Any Sleeping Family Member, was… Do not erase the board. Not ever. Never.
Dad has a metal stand filled with discs marked by day and locale, and organized by group. Sometimes their cameras recorded ordinary days, and sometimes they followed a group of news reporters into the worst zones of conflict in the war. My parents are so lucky that they weren’t hurt. It makes me appreciate what they do even more. Someone is always filming the news on the television, and sometimes it’s my parents. I appreciate how hard their job is—and I hope that the network uses their documentary as a news special. Mom thinks they have a potential buyer, and that’s good news for us.
I have had a desk in my parents’ work space since I was small. It started out kiddie size, and as I grew, so did the desk. Now I have one the size of my parents’ a farm table they found at a yard sale when we visited Dad’s family in Vermont.
Maybe this is why I love to make movies and edit them: I have a place to work and the proper tools to execute my ideas. Mom and Dad always took my ideas seriously. Making movies and being with my parents were more fun to me than dolls, dressing up, or playing board games. My childhood play has now become my passion, or at least, that’s how it seems. I’m sure it’s the same for Andrew. We’ve always liked working in my parents’ office, because everything we need to cut videos is here. And it’s free. And no pesky Bozelli brothers bothering us. And then there’s the lunch.
Mom brings a tray with thin-crust pepperoni pizza and Stewart’s root beer (a bottle for each of us) and puts it on a work table. “How about a break?”
Andrew is syncing up the time codes on our Mermaid Day video. “Thanks, Mrs. C.”
“How’s it going?” Mom looks over Andrew’s shoulder at the video monitor.
“We’re getting there,” he says.
“We’re trying to find the story in the parade. It’s coming off as just one flamboyant costume after another.”
“That’s what Mermaid Day is ,” Andrew says.
“We still need a story.”
“Sometimes you can let the images speak for themselves. They don’t need an over-veil. Just let the parade stand for what it is.”
“See?” Andrew grins. “Your mom agrees with me.”
“Don’t gang up,” I tell them as I click through to the steel drum band segment.
Andrew wheels his chair over to the work table. “Come on, I’m starving.”
Mom sits down with us. “So, Viola, I got an email from Marisol’s parents. You invited the girls for opening night? And you forgot to tell me?”
“I just floated the idea out there. I didn’t think they could
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