This Just Blew My Mind

Not an April Fools thing. Just me flying my geek flag.

When I grow up, I want to be a scientist.

The Comedor Martita in Todos Santos - 10.31.06

From our hotel balcony we watch the ferris wheels as the sun slowly burns off the morning fog. Our plan is to walk past the jail and descend to the plaza to explore the market and carnival booths that have gathered at the feet of the ferris wheel. But before we start exploring, we stop in at the Comedor Martita for a bit of breakfast.


The door opens into the kitchen, where three women are minding the stove and chatting and cutting up dead chickens. They look up from their work just long enough to nod towards another doorway in the back of the kitchen. We step through to find a grim balcony where a few tables have been set up. We settle into a corner table by the railing.

The balcony overlooks the valley and the town. Immediately below us is a small plot of corn. Around the plot, concrete houses are huddled. From their roofs small spikes of rebar stand at attention, ready to serve as the foundation for the next level of the house when it is time to build again.


Dawn has fully arrived and the clouds are high, just skimming the mountaintops, and so the sky is bright. At times, the sun even breaks through to stew the valley into a sweaty fever.

Still the balcony remains dark, nestlike. The morning light is blocked by drying clothes hanging from the rafters. The balcony is made of dark, hefty planks, and the warm weight of the wood brings a comforting sense of stability.

*****

Seven chicks and a hen skitter about on the balcony floor, searching for scraps. The hen leads them out of the balcony, hopping over a small concrete ledge. The brood slowly files out of the room behind her. All of them except one, the scrawniest, who can’t make the jump no matter how desperately she flaps her nearly featherless wings. She chirps forlornly a few times before returning to search for food under the other tables. There she leaves her pale liquid droppings.

*****

Breakfast arrives: fried chicken, scrambled eggs, black beans, tortillas. The chicken is good, and the eggs are amazing, smoky and rich. We eat in silence while watching the valley, the scrawny chick, and the two cooks who have come out to the balcony to peel vegetables for lunch. They watch us from the corner of their eyes and gossip about us in Mam.

The Ferris Wheels in Todos Santos - 10.31.06

The jail sits at the end of our street. The jail has two cells, which today are empty, and through the two bar-covered metal doors you can see the two latrines and two rusty beds that await new inmates.

Curiously, the jail has a charming location above the central plaza. A quaint cobblestone road climbs the hill from the plaza to the jail and beyond. The road is quite steep – to the point that in the rain, when the dust on the road turns to mud, it is nearly impossible to walk uphill. Every step towards the jail is undermined by an equivalent slide towards the plaza.

In the rain, then, the inmates are entertained by their neighbors’ Sisyphean struggles. On clear days, the inmates are greeted by a delightful view of the valley, the town center and, these days, the ferris wheels.

Video: They go much faster than this, promise.

There are two ferris wheels in town for the Day of the Dead festivities. They look normal enough, but they don’t act like any ferris wheels I know. The ferris wheels I know are designed to provide patrons with a relaxing view of the surrounds. Guatemalan ferris wheels, in contrast, are built for a different purpose: speed.

Three times as fast, that’s my estimate. The ferris wheels in Todos Santos are three times as fast as any I’ve seen in America.

There is a sonic component to these wheels, starting with staccato laughs of nervous anticipation as new riders slowly take their places. Those laughs strengthen into squeals of delight as the fully loaded wheel begins to move in earnest. As the wheel finds its pace, the squeals lower into throaty bawls of concern. At top speed, the wheel is cloaked in the silence of utter despair, which is punctuated only by the hopeless wail of the two or three women who have managed to catch their breath.

Finally, after several minutes, the wheel slows and then stops. And then the wheel starts moving backward. Riders’ screams echo from the hillsides.

I can also report, based on the sworn testimony of survivors, that while riders are held in place by a safety bar, the bar is locked into place by nothing more than a bent, rusty nail.

We do not ride the ferris wheels in Todos Santos. I choose to see this as a sign of my emerging sense of prudence, rather than another notch on my belt of cowardice.

Marie and Benedice - 11.20.06

Another Guatemala post I've been working on over the last year...

My host family this week includes 2 granddaughters: Marie, age 4, and Benedice, age 5. Technically, the girls live next door, but they always join me when I come for meals at their grandmother's house. Every morning, they sit next to me as I eat my beans and eggs and tortillas. They’ve finished their breakfast long before I'm awake and so they just watch as I eat.

If there’s one thing kids like, it’s being chased, and Marie and Benedice spend a good deal of energy each morning devising ways to get me to off my duff. They whisper secret plans to each other, giggling their fool heads off.

In the end, they always come up with the same plan. The plan is this: Benedice distracts me with a question while Marie circles around to tickle me from behind. That's it. Every morning.

It works every time....

I defend myself like a wounded coyote, leaping from my stool and lunging at my Marie with teeth bared. Ah, but this leaves my back exposed to Benedice, who pounces on me like a mountain lion. There is a melee, and much chasing about the house, the girls doing their best to stay ahead of me but still close enough to feel threatened. I do my best to give a good chase without destroying my knees on the concrete floor.

Then Grandma peeks her head inside and gives us the stink eye. We slink back to the table.

I have a few moments of peace to eat until Grandma steps out of the house again, and the girls start to giggle, and whisper their secrets, and Benedice asks another question.

*****

After breakfast we always pause to read a book, and that book is always Where The Wild Things Are. The girls fight each other for the right to turn the pages.

When the last page arrives, the girls rush outside. I follow slowly behind, conserving my energy for the game of tag ahead.

*****

(Video: Nicole joins our game of tag)

You might think I could fairly well dominate a game of tag against a couple of preschoolers, but we're surprisingly evenly matched. For one thing, they know the terrain – the slick spots in the packed earth, the branches that must hurtled. They also fit easily under the lines of wet clothes that are steaming in the morning sun – lines that threaten to decapitate me at every turn. Finally, they are protected by their puppies, Rocky and Paulusa, who snip at my heels whenever I come near to their posts.

We have to dodge all these obstacles as we race through the fenced in yard. We also have to dodge Great Grandma when she shuffles outside to hang clothes on the lines, or to visit the latrine, which sits in the back of the lot in a shrouded by black plastic tarps and sheets of rusty tin.


*****

One morning, I ask my host Grandma about her mother. She responds with a snort, “That bitch? She’s a horrible person. She used to hit me and my sisters, yank on our ears, say all kind of bad things about us. Even now I have to keep the girls away from her so she doesn’t hurt them.”

But Grandma never questions her obligation to care for her mother, and so Great Grandma remains an obstacle as I chase Marie and Benedice. She shuffles slowly through the yard, the eye of our hurricane, sliding her left foot forward 10 inches or so, and then, leaning on a stick, she drags her right foot even.

The Todos Santos Horse Race - 11.1.06

Looking back on the Todos Santos horse race – by far one of the most notable events during my time in Guatemala – I still waffle between being completely amused by it and extremely saddened.

After more than a year, I’ve finally given up on trying to resolve those two sentiments. With that behind me, I was able to patch up the essay I wrote about that day.

(Check out the video I took of the crazy spectacle.)

*****

The night before the race, the riders were gathered for the feast at the Captain’s house....



...Outside the house, friends and family members stumbled about in the dark street, dancing to the beat of marimba music. Everyone involved in the festivities was drunk. I mean drunk. Slippy slappy, soup-sandwich, sing-a-song-sally drunk. Deeeeeeee-runk.

A sizable crowd of mostly-sober spectators formed a ring around the dancers. They watched somberly as the revelers explored the outer reaches of intoxication. The bystanders were as stone-faced as statues; it was impossible to tell what they thought of the two teenage boys who were trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to locate and then fight each other. Nor was it clear how they viewed the man who relieved himself in the middle of the circle or the mother who toddled about between the fighters and dancers, holding a liter bottle of Gallo.

The mother squawked when a small posse of male relatives entered the circle to pull her away from the music. The crowd parted calmly for her departure, and watched silently as she fell in the street and threw a tantrum, waving a bottle at her captors.

The marimba players were tucked against the side of the house under the thin light of a single bulb. They calmly proceeded through a series of songs that I couldn't distinguish. The rails of a wooden fence protected them from the flailings of the dancers.

Just to their right, Civil Patrol officers guarded the house and the team of riders. They weren’t drunk yet, but they had a bottle of moonshine sitting by their feet, ready to open the moment their shift was over.

*****

The early morning air was tart as we strolled towards the race on a street, which degraded into a track, which dwindled into a path, which wound through back yards, next to chicken coops, and under clotheslines.

The locals we encountered laughed at how lost we were, but kindly pointed the way down into he next gully and the way up the other side.

Against my better judgment, I was wearing the traditional red pants of the Todos Santos men which Nicole has somehow convinced me to buy. Despite my disguise, the locals still deduced that I was a foreigner.



We arrived at the track a half an hour early. Almost no one else was there. Not the riders, not the crowd. Just a handful of race coordinators trying to figure out how to swing the log that would let riders on and off the course. As we waited for the town to arrive I helped a man build a small fence to keep the crowd from walking all over his land.

By 8:05 a dozen or so of the riders were ready to go, and that, apparently, was good enough. Somebody started blowing a whistle, a few of the riders started screaming, the wooden gate was lowered, and 14 exceptionally drunk men hurtled down the road, jackhammering their manhood into the backs of their terrified steeds.



Miraculously, the first sprint down the road didn’t produce any fatalities, but on the run back to the starting log, we witnessed the first fall of the day. A few spectators rushed to help the fallen man, about whom three things were apparent: First, he had escaped without injury. Second, he had never before been on a horse, and would never be on one again. Third, he had absolutely no concept of who he was, or what was going on, or what the hell all the yelling was about, or why he wasn’t being allowed to just lie there and sleep.

My favorite rider was a man who lost his shoe in the tumble. He was clearly the drunkest rider, so for the rest of the day we referred to him as Ol’ Drunky. He needed a team of rescuers to heave him back on his incredibly patient pony. His rescuers parked him near a fence so that he could hold onto it for dear life while an assistant put his shoe back on.


Another favorite was Ol’ No Hands, so named for his insatiable desire to ride without holding on to the rains. He was easy to pick out of the crowd because he shrilled a high-pitched ‘oy!’ every time he reencountered the saddle.

There was also Ol’ Over, a man who somehow found a way - within his first 4 seconds on the course - to bounce FORWARD out of the saddle until he was straddling the neck of his poor horse, who was so embarrassed that she simply stopped running. She stood there in the middle of the course, crimson with shame, until bystanders returned her rider to the saddle.

Ol’ Whippy wasn’t a rider, but he sure helped out by whipping all the horses at the start of their sprint to make sure that they were hustling. The only time I saw him abandon this vital task was when he turned to whip a nearby young man who was selling cotton candy to some children.

Other riders slowly joined the fray, but there were never more than 25 riders on the track at one time. Some quit entirely after the first couple of runs, while others took frequent breaks.



*****

We left the race after two hours. It was no longer a novelty to be surrounded by a sea of drunks. Plus, we had heard that no buses would be running the next day and we wanted to be on our way to San Cristobal.

On our way back to the hotel, we wound thru crowds of drunk boys fighting each other in the streets. Passed out men are everywhere – some collapsed in doorways, others in the street. Some had family members or friends sitting nearby, watching over them.

*****

No chicken buses were coming through town, so we jumped a microbus to Tres Calles and then hitched a ride with a family to Huehuetenango. Along the way, some boys pointed out where a delivery truck had slid off the road and plummeted into the valley. You could see the frame still stuck in the trees.

I asked the boys what had happened and they said the driver simply took the corner too fast. He was killed in the wreck.


*****

The next day, we caught a bus north toward the Mexican border. We rode along the banks of a river in a steep ravine. Above the road, I saw a corn field on an incline of at least 45% judging from the angle of the trees.

*****

For more photos from Todos Santos check out this Flickr set.

MORE DETAILS REGARDING THE RACE

History. When the Spanish arrived in the new world, they brought civilization, genocide, disease, Christianity, and horses. Their horses gave them a distinct strategic advantage over the local armies. The Spanish certainly didn’t want to surrender this advantage, so for 300 years they prohibited the villagers of Todos Santos from having anything to do with the animals. They couldn’t touch them, much less ride them.

Then, 200 years ago, the men of Todos Santos hosted a race to demonstrate that they were willing and able to ride horses. Every year since, during the All Saint’s festival, hundreds of men from the village have demonstrated their bravery and their defiance of outsiders by riding horses.

The Race is Not a Race. The riders aren’t racing per se. They’re just galloping their horses back and forth on a 300-meter stretch of dirt road for 7 hours. It’s like an unending drag race, except there’s not even a clear starting time. Instead, once most of the riders have reached one side of the course, one rider – almost certainly, the drunkest – gives a whoop and takes off in the opposite direction. The others follow… or don’t.

And there are no winners because the race is just a symbolic battle against outside influence, rather than an actual competition.

The Meaning is Not the Meaning. In theory, by partaking in the race the men of Todos Santos are proudly defying colonial influence. But in reality, the race is now just an excuse to get schnookered and impress the neighbors. It’s sort of like what has happened with Christmas in America. For quite some time it was a very reverent event. Now, for many people, it’s just about presents.

Hertz for Horses. They don’t have many horses in the valley, so they rent them. This adds to the us/them symbolism, as each local rider has his own, personal, outsider to master. Here’s what I found interesting: in the rental contract, if the horse dies or is injured while not being raced, the rider is held responsible. Seems right. But get this, if the horse dies DURING the race, the rider is NOT held responsible. The equivalent of this is as follows: I rent a convertible and am held liable for damages to the car while parking and filling up with gas, but not for any damages that occur while participating in a smashup derby. Of course, the price for such a completely stupid contract is incredibly high. Riders often pay 2,000 Quetzales to rent such horses. In comparison, 80% of the Guatemalan population lives on less than 5,600 Quetzales per year.

Oh Captain, My Captain. There are no winners, but that doesn’t stop the locals from forming teams. Each team consists of
• a Captain
• a 2nd Captain
• 2 Lieutenants called – for some reason - the 1st and 2nd monkey
• Anywhere from 5 to 15 plain riders.
The forming of teams seems to be an exercise in social politics. There are captains who are well respected and have a lot of sway locally. Riders rush to join their teams for prestige and schmoozing opportunities. Meanwhile the other, less popular, captains are seeking to improve their social standing by using cash to build a network and accumulate prestige.

It’s the Economy, Stupid. By the time the festival is over, a captain may very well have spent over 15,000 Q to support his team. Again, 80% of Guatemalans live on 5,600 per year. The price is so high that now only the wealthy villagers and those who have relatives in the US have the funds to participate. As a result, the number of riders has plummeted. Previously there were hundreds of riders in each race. This year, there were 54 riders.

Alcohol: The Cause of - and Solution to - All of Life’s Problems. The night before the race, the team gathers at the Captain’s house for a feast where they get drunk. They riders drink because they know that they may well die in the race tomorrow. Of course, the only reason they would ever die is if they got so drunk that they fell out of the saddle and were trampled. (Smacking of forehead.)

The Morning of the Race. At 5am, after a sleepless night, the riders are assigned their horses and off they go with their noble steed to share one last meal with their families. At home they drink more. And then the family helps them get dressed.

The Value of a Man. You might think this is incalculable, but it’s not. During the race, one dead rider = one good year of crops.

Nice Sash. Each rider wears his traditional uniform plus a red sash to symbolize the energy in their blood and a plumbed hat with streamers that symbolizes the quetzal bird.

More Photo Fun

Over the holidays, my friend D and I decided to get serious about this photography business. So we entered into a friendly competition: twice per month we'll be traipsing about town seeing who can take the best shots.

I'm not totally clear on who serves as the judge for this competition. I'm hoping it's Nicole, because that give me a sporting chance. D already has quite a portfolio, so if it really is just a question of pure skill, I'm screwed.

(Is it so wrong to cheat at a hobby?)

Yesterday was our inaugural walkabout, and we were messing around with depth-of-field shots. I'm fairly pleased with how my photos turned out - if you want to see the rest, take a look at my flickr page (link is on the sidebar.)



Anybody else want to jump in on this "competition"? Zap Brannigan, I'm eyeing you.

Next up will either be landscape or macro shots, depending on the weather.

Playing Around With My New Camera

I recently bought a fancy-pants camera, a Nikon D40x. Now I'm kind of like a teenager with a Ferrari... just completely out of my league.

Still and all, it's fun to play with. Here are four of the shots that I like.


Our bamboo on a windy evening.

Our Buddha head.

The alley off Otis St.

The tree on Park St. near Mt. Pleasant.

Heritage = Pork Rinds + Lawn Mowers + Dragon?

Shenandoah valley again. Man, do I love that place.

So THIS go 'round brought us to the Page County Heritage Festival in Luray.

Has anybody else noticed that "celebrate heritage" has somehow come to mean "line up your old tractors"? Page county has gone a wee further, including not only old tractors, but also old riding lawnmowers. Not that I can mock that too much. I really like the old machines. Check out this beauty.


Another part of the county's heritage is that it was once attacked by a giant purple dragon. Luckily he was tamed. Now he can attend the festival like everyone else.



And then there were the Hi-Horse Cloggers. This seems like the Appalachian version of Riverdance, doesn't it?



After the festival, we wandered over to New Market and tramped around anther civil war battlefield, as is our wont. Well, my wont anyway. Nicole wonts nothing to do with it.... except to ride the cannons.

Ah, Boston. I miss your musk.

Here's the quick and dirty on my trip to Boston last weekend, including some 100% must-see videos.


1. Tom and Jane were delightful hosts. I kept them up past their bedtime, and probably behaved worse than the title character from Problem Child, but they graciously absorbed my antics and returned them with nothing but kindness and an ample supply of Cherry Coke.
>

2. The Massachusetts Bay Transportation Association can bite me.

I had a lovely Friday planned with my friend Curt up in Gloucester. Basically, we were going to play video games all day long. Wii, Guitar Hero, probably some Martian killing games... it was going to be awesome. But then my bus was wicked late, and which made me just miss my subway connection. So then I forked over $25 to have a cabbie drive me Dale Earnhardt style through the streets of Boston to the commuter rail station... where I missed my train. By 3 minutes. The whole day was shot.

A curse on both your houses, MBTA. A curse on both your houses.

3. Clutch Hitting Saves the Day. Tom pulled some strings so that I could rejoin my old co-ed softball team for one more glorious run. I repaid him by muffing a two-out line drive... an error that ultimately led to 5 more runs for the other team. Oops. BUT, our team came up with a bunch of clutch hits, including the game-winner by my good friend Amy who laced a walk-off single into left.

4. I will NEVER allow myself to be videotaped while singing karaoke. Fortunately for us, others aren't nearly as shy.




5. Tara was a gorgeous bride. Corey was a gorgeous groom. The bar was open. Wheee! Congratulations guys!



6. Hurray for guy time. Here was the line up for Sunday at Jeff's house: Watch football, eat, drink, play football, eat, drink, watch baseball, eat, drink, play poker, eat, drink, drink, drink, drink, play Wii, drink, watch rugby.


7. Sometimes you just have to get up on the roof and dance. It looked like these people were warming up for Brazil's Carnival. Boys in white playing some sort of mamba rhythm. Girls dressed like peacocks shaking what god gave them. Bless them all.

New Job

Not much time to write tonight... just thought you all know that today was my first day at my new job. It's a super cool preschool that provides great wrap-around services, including medical and dental help for the kids and ESL programs for parents that need it. I'm sure I'll write more about it later, but here is the link to their website. (A website I'll soon be improving.)

One other thing. Our office is right by a music venue. Today's headliner? Wailin' Jennings. Tomorrow's is Micheal Bolton. Sweet.

Football vs. Soccer

For almost a year now I've been meaning to write about my trips to see the Xelaju Super Chivos, the football team that calls Quetzaltenango, Guatemala home.

(FYI: "Chivos" are goats. "Super," I think, means super. Put it together and you get the Super Goats.)

Really, my goal was to translate all of the incredibly filthy things that the crowd yells/chants/sings about the opposing team.




I mean, I could just paraphrase and tell you that in the crowd's mind, all the opposing player's mothers are... um... women of ill repute. And so are the player's sisters and wives. And also the players themselves. Except the players are all attracted to men. Especially the goalie. He's REALLY attracted to men.

But that really wouldn't cover it, because the beauty is in the details. And in the passion with which these messages are conveyed. A passion that sometimes includes pyrotechnics and flaming, airborne objects. (Fire brands for everyone! Now throw them! Huzzah!)

It's a passion that is fueled by a lot of booze.

But it looks like I'll never get the chance to write that all up. So here are some videos that you should compare and contrast. The first is from a recent D.C. United soccer game that I went to. The MLS is getting better. The game was actually pretty good. And a few hundred - maybe even a thousand - of the fans were very passionate. We joined their midst for the second half of the game and had a jolly good time.




But HERE are the videos that I pieced together from my trips to see the Super Chivos. See the difference?

September 17 is A Good Good Day

That's two "good"s.

One good for being Nicole's birthday. A second good for being the date on which we met last fall. (We didn't start dating until mid October, but what the heck. We'll just celebrate then too.)


We had a little party to celebrate, with Nicole whipping up some sinful truffles and surprisingly potent espresso martinis to wash them down. Merriment was had.


Then, after a somewhat sluggish morning, we zipped out to the Shenandoah valley again, this time taking the Skyline Drive south towards the center of the valley.

Near Luray we stayed in a "cabin" - one of those L.L. Bean versions with satellite TV and a jacuzzi. Not that I'm complaining a bit - 3 cheers for jacuzzis - but is that really a cabin? Where I come from, it's not a cabin unless it has an outhouse.


Semantics aside, it was a lovely to get away from the city together. A LOT has happened over the last year, and it was great to sit in a nice, quite place to think about it all and to be happy.

Oh, and we saw this Preying Mantis! To this and all other bugs I say "bleh."

Read It.

Vast sums of taxpayer money are pouring into the coffers of US contractors in Iraq -- but that money isn't being used to make things better for anyone but the ultra-rich in the US.

Link to the Rolling Stone article.


(Discovered on boingboing.net.)

And While We're At It...

...here's another post from BoingBoing.net for all of you still interested in Guatemala.

James Rodríguez: revisiting genocide in Rabinal, Guatemala

A Good Summer Read

I'm adding this book to my reading list.

Speaking of which... have any of you watched The Good Shepherd? If not, give it a shot. It's more methodical than suspenseful and you'll need some snacks to get through it, but it's fascinating none the less.

*******
Pulled directly from Boingboing.net:
*******

Psychological "torture bible" published in 1961 reappears online

Hombre sin nombre tells Boing Boing:

If you were to begin researching interrogation, interviewing, and brainwashing techniques, you would eventually notice that one particular interesting-sounding volume appears over and over again in the relevant bibliographies: something called The Manipulation of Human Behavior, published in 1961 [by John Wiley & Sons].

Based on the compelling title and the fact that just about every publication in the subject area cites it, you would then probably try to seek it out for yourself--only to discover that it has never been reprinted.

Then you'd find out a bit more: the book is a compilation of seven research reports, and funded at least in large part by the United States government. You can even track down the table of contents online, and your jaw may drop when you read the chapter titles:

* The Physiological State of the Interrogation Subject as it Affects Brain Function
* The Effects of Reduced Environmental Stimulation on Human Behavior: A Review
* The Use of Drugs in Interrogation
* Physiological Responses as a Means of Evaluating Information
* The Potential Uses of Hypnosis in Interrogation
* The Experimental Investigation of Interpersonal Influence
* Countermanipulation through Malingering

These articles were written by the people who were paid by the US government, mostly in the 1950s, to research brainwashing and interrogation techniques by giving people drugs, placing them under sensory deprivation, hypnotizing them, etc. etc. Many of these experiments essentially involve torture and are likely to be widely regarded as highly unethical. This is fundamental research, and if there was any followup research done, it has not yet been published for public consumption.

This book is of enormous historical importance, and yet is largely unavailable. If you live in the United States, this is some of what your government was up to in the fifties. I doubt that their funding of these ideas stopped with the publication of this volume.

Link to copy of the complete text.

This book was referenced in a popular post from 2006 on the political blog Daily Kos: Link to "Frankenstein's Children: Modern Torture's Scientific Bible."

It's also available in scanned form on Questia.com, but I find that website a total pain in the butt to use.

Amazon shows a few used copies if you're so inclined.

Oh, Shenandoah.

One thing that keeps striking me about DC: all these famous Civil War era locations are just a stones throw away. This weekend's destination was the Shenandoah valley. It's only 60 miles from DC but it was a key strategic piece in the war, and man is it gorgeous.

We got off to a late and stupid start.

Late, because we both had work stuff to wrap up. (Nicole was winging the last few pages of a grant proposal and I was submitting my resume to a few dozen more openings.)

Stupid, because we somehow managed to take all the things we didn't need (namely, all our camping gear even though we knew we were staying in a hotel) while forgetting to take the one suitcase with all the things we did need (clothes, toiletries, shoes, etc.)

I don't know how this happened. Nicole doesn't know how this happened. It just happened. But it made for a fun moment in the hotel parking lot.

Me: Hey, you know what we forgot?
Nicole: Um, pretty much everything?
Me: Yeah. Everything.

Luckily, the lovely town of Front Royal comes equipped with a Big K, which met all our needs. And right next door to the Big K was a Dollar Tree. I don't know if this makes me a grownup or what, but at some point I became very impressed by all the deals at the Dollar Tree. Nicole's right there with me. Actually a little bit ahead of me. I was just browsing around with my jaw down (A pizza cutter is only a dollar? What country's kids made that?) and the next thing I know, she's prancing down the isle toward me giggling maniacally, eyes all dilated, whispering "A dollar! It's all only a dollar!"

Twenty bucks later we set off for a walk around Front Royal. We hit a sweet bookstore and got these two gems for 10 cents each. This Hunter book is the one where he goes underground after a radical on the run - and comes up with murder. That should be fantastic.


And if you can't tell why this book is awesome, well there's just no helping you. (America's fastest growing racquet sport! Man, I love that part.)


Once we hit downtown, there were lots of memorials honoring the fallen Confederate forces as well as the Confederate victories. Anyone interested in learning about what happened in the valley during the war should check out this site.

The next morning we returned downtown for breakfast at a wonderful little diner by the name of L'Dees Pancake House. And by wonderful I mean 2 pancakes, 2 eggs, 2 pieces of bacon and 2 sausage links for $4.50. In DC that's like a $35 dollar breakfast. For those of you from Michigan, this was basically a Virginian version of Duane's... except at Duane's you can't get scrapple and at L'Dees, you're almost obligated to.

Front Royal (L'Dees is behind the white truck.)

The hike was gorgeous. It was about 10 miles long, with a healthy amount of elevation change, but nothing too crazy. The forest was open hardwood that had recently been thinned by a fire. The Overall Run stream ran over a rocky bed from the ridge to the valley floor. There was a beautiful overlook towards the end of the loop, and then a chance to swim right at the end. Awesome.

(It's the Overall Run / Heiskeell Hollow trail at the end of VA 630 if anyone is interested in replicating.)

Here are a few photos I took.







Two less-than-ideal events occurred towards the end of the hike. First, I developed some lovely blisters from my sandals. Second, I must have stepped on a ground wasp nest or something because I was stung by three wasps in quick succession. (I haven't been stung by a wasp in quite some time... that freaking HURTS!)

So we went on a brisk, arm-flailing, 5-minute jog to wrap up our hike. (I'm not above running from things that frighten me. I'm not. I have no shame about this.)

But then, in what may be some karmic swing, as we were driving away from the trail-head we saw a fox. It trotted across the road about 30 yards in front of us, and then stopped about 10 yards deep in the woods and stared at us as we stared back.

A Trip to Goldsboro

Last weekend we finally made it down to visit my sister, Beth, and her family at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in Goldsboro, NC. That's were a lot of F-15 jets hang out when they're not roaming around raising a ruckus. As near as I can understand (and believe me, I'm a slow learner) my brother-in-law, Adam, spends his days calibrating/testing/fixing the machines and tools that will either work on the jets, or work on other machines and tools that work on the jets.

I think.

Anyway, the kids were just recovering from a stomach virus known locally by the delicate name, "The Crud." So were my Beth and Adam, for that matter. But they were kind enough to host us anyway, and we had a blast.

I spent a lot of time setting up dominoes so the kids could knock them down, and building a tower so they could knock it down. Then we went outside where Zach displayed his prowess with the garden hose and Zoe whupped me at soccer, outscoring me by at least 25 goals. (She's also a dynamo at T-ball.)

We spent a lot of time reading books too.



On the adult side of things we took a tour of the base, saw where my brother-in-law works, ate some steak, and taught Nicole how to play Euchre.

All in all, it pretty awesome weekend.

(Beth, thanks for letting us visit!)

A Visit To Great Falls

They're great. They're falls. That's about the size of it.



The most interesting thing about Great Falls, which is right outside DC, is that George Washington presided over the building the canal. It was kind of a 'tweener job for him. Post Revolutionary war. Pre Presidency.

More here.

One other interesting thing about that day. Right as we were about to leave, all kinds of firetrucks showed up. The fireman jogged down to the water and jumped into a little rubber boat and started zooming all over the place. Then a helicopter showed up and started making a series of low passes over the water.

Apparently they have a lot of drownings around there.

I looked in the paper and didn't see reports of a drowning or anything, so maybe it was just a drill?

Eric and Rocky, Redux

There is one slightly Twilight Zone aspect to our house.

From the beginning....

When I was a wee lad, I LOVED dogs. I counted our dogs among my best friends and - since I spent most of my time working outside on our farm - they were my constant companions. They were by my side as I fed the cows, worked in the fields, rode my fourwheeler all over tarnation...

One of my first dogs was a German Shepard, whom I named Rocky.



(A note here on pet names: As a child, I had a tendency to think out of the box when it came to names. My first cat I named Christmas Tree, because he was completely black, just like it's really dark out all the time around Christmastime, which is when the Christmas trees are lit. Such was my logic as a four-year-old. My second cat was named Jeff The Wildcat, in honor of my cousin, Jeff, who played football for a team who's mascot was a wildcat.)

Rocky was awesome. He looked really tough, had a fierce bark, and scared the bejesus out of the Jehovah’s Witnesses who dropped by every 6 months or so. He was also really sweet, clearly preferring to lick strangers rather than bite them.

Alas, he also had a unquenchable desire to chase cars. And one Christmas eve, when I was 10ish, he finally caught one. May he rest in peace.

Boy, was THAT a crappy Christmas.

Contributing to the emotional load was the fact that my parents had purchased one big gift for me that year... a stuffed dog that looked almost exactly like Rocky. Their idea, and it was brilliant, was to give me a way to have Rocky inside the house even though the real Rocky wasn't allowed inside.

Mom and Dad, of course, were in a complete bind. They didn't have time to find another gift for me. So their options were to a) not give the stuffed dog to me and somehow explain to me why they didn't get me any presents or b) give the dog to me and hope that I didn't have a complete emotional meltdown.

They gave it to me.

And that day it was both terrible and horrible to have this immediate reminder of my best friend who was now dead. But over the coming months most of the terribleness dropped away, and I grew to love that stuffed dog.

I still have him today and I fully intend to pass him on to my kids.


OK, so here's the Twilight Zone part of our new house:
Our downstairs neighbor is named Eric.
He has a dog.
That dog is named Rocky.

How weird is that? Of course, in terms of appearance, our Rocky's couldn't possibly be more different. But this Rocky is a sweet little dog too, and is quickly becoming on of our favorite guests.



And, yes, his tongue almost always hangs out the side like that.

You'll Know Where You Are

For about a million different reasons, this is my favorite picture of all time.

More like it here at Fogonazos, which is great blog. (Note: it's a bilingual site. So if you can't talk the Spanish, look for links to the English language version.)