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And then the joyous day finally arrived as the young lad, the maker, and his wife welcomed their newborn daughter: Elizabeth Dolores Booker. Born on a moonlit midsummer's night, July 31, with a shock of black hair, deep brown eyes, and long graceful fingers, she was everything the family had hoped and dreamed. This trembling, rosy little lady carried on her great-grandmother's namesake, from the ancient Hebrew that celebrates God's abundance and covenant across the generations. And there was much to celebrate indeed. #ElizabethDolores (at Two Ten)

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Now on this day, the boy was on his way to pickup fresh bread to bring to his aunt's house. He took off from home along the waterfront, running up the tree-lined street, a basket of a dozen eggs in hand. He took a shortcut right through the park at the center of the village on his way to the bakery, admiring the Eastertide candies and colorful baubles in the window display as he rounded the corner of the apothecary, called pharmacies in those days, oh best beloved. (at Prospect Park)

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The young lad loved to run. He would run everywhere in the village: from his humble home to the glade in the woods and from the stone archway to the abandoned mill by the frozen sea. He loved the warm sun warming his cold cheeks, the steady tap-tap of his feet hitting the path, and the freedom to take a different journey every time. All the neighbors would smile with a watchful eye and greet him as he flew past. (at Two Ten)

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There in a small house in a quiet village at the edge of the city, the maker and his family gathered around the table: hands clasped, heads bowed, eyes closed (save for the boy with designs on his first morsel of dinner). They had much to be thankful for; the year had been good to them. The garden had produced just enough to get them through the winter and their store of candles kept the room aglow until bedtime each night. Yes, all seemed happy in this home. (at Two Ten)

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But then the brightest light of the home came into focus. She was singing along with the phonograph; her cheeks rosy from stirring the pot and chasing the energetic lad; her soft, dark curls hanging down, framing her face just so. As she lifted a spoon to her lips to taste the stew, everything in her seemed a smile, the embodiment of mirth itself. The maker’s wife. (at Two Ten)

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Home. It was a modest bungalow clad in brick and scraps of steel salvaged from the war. The drawing room was handsomely appointed with family heirlooms, oil paintings, and a fair number of books. An old phonograph in the corner hummed with show tunes. The main room opened into the kitchen where the comforting promise of a highlander stew beckoned. It was a swirl of light, color, steam, and music, beguiling to the senses like a gypsy’s wild dance. (at Two Ten)

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With a jingle of his key and a merry rap upon the door, the maker announced his presence on the front step. Behind the door, peals of laughter rang out, tracing its way through the rooms until it quieted to a nearby giggle as the lock was lifted and the knob slowly turned. There, the young lad’s beaming face peeked out over the threshold and up at his father with delight. (at Two Ten)

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And every cold winter's night, the maker would return to his village with a day’s wages and fresh bread for dinner. He crossed the great bridge facing out over the frozen edge of the sea, watching the gulls dance with the orange clouds on the horizon and feeling the sharp bite of the wind rushing up the channel. (at Manhattan Bridge)

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Every day, the maker journeyed from his village to sell his wares. He went over the great bridges, through the tunnels, and into the heart of the bustling city. Oh, the cities in those days: they were towering castles of light, steel, glass, and hope. Like a moth to a flame, attracted to its inviting warmth, crackling electricity, and unmatched glow, the city drew in the ambitions and dreams of the masses from miles around. (at Governors Island)

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Once upon a time in a far off kingdom, there lay a small village at the edge of the city. And in this sleepy neighborhood, there lived a carefree young lad and a maker with his expectant wife. Oh yes, best beloved, this lad was soon to become a big brother. For this is the story of that boy, his parents, and the extraordinary adventure that lay ahead.

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Raspberry high five! Here's to one full year of a B&W experiment on my photo stream. What happens next? Just wait and see... #benjaminpage #blackandwhite (at Two Ten)

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"I want to see you game, boys, I want to see you brave and manly, and I also want to see you gentle and tender." Benjamin was introduced to The Adventures of Tintin this week, a series that I grew up reading over and over again. I'd like to think that this intrepid young reporter took this instruction penned by Theodore Roosevelt to heart with vigor and verve. And it's my prayer that these same values will be inscribed on my son's life. From generation to generation, that true courage, humility, and joy will reign in all seasons. #benjaminpage #tintin (at Cobble Hill Historic District)

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Snowy Long Island nights call for a cozy spot by the fire with yummy snacks! Grateful for moments to pause, reflect, and breathe in the joy of a new year with family. #benjaminpage (at Huntington, New York)

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Tuesday night hoops in the neighborhood with my boy SeanieWill. Brooklyn we out. #brooklyngrit #brooklynnets (at Barclays Center)

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Dreaming of amazing aquarium adventures with my favorite little #Octonaut during our Baltimore holiday. Also, #benjaminpage had all of his Octo-friends stuffed in his pockets to show them all the underwater creatures. Let's go back, @mrselisabooker!#youngnaturalist #creaturereport #nationalaquarium (at National Aquarium)

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Celebrating a new year full of adventure, embracing the moment with dear family, remembering the many blessings of making home wherever we are in life. Let's raise our glasses: here's to promise, hope, and good cheer in the company of those you love! #benjaminpage (at Federal Hill)

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Try to remember when life was so tender, that love was an ember about to billow. Time to embrace the promise of all that is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy... and race headlong into a bold new year.