Visiting Granddaughter

Hey, we're in Kansas City spending time with our 7 month old granddaughter and her parents. This is a real treat for us and it's a lot of work. Babies are a lot worse than bosses for making ambiguous demands designed to multitask you to death. The redeeming thing is that they are a lot cuter than bosses.

Our princess seems to be a baby of great robustness and strength. She's in the ninety-something percentile of size in all dimensions such as length, weight, and head size but a little slow in the hair growth department. Despite the pink outfits, our daughter is always receiving dubious compliments from strangers such as, "Great baby. He's going to be a bruiser isn't he."

Ayla is her name. This is a girl's name in both Finnish and Hebrew, so it recognizes respectively her paternal grandfather and grandmother. It is also notably the name of the protagonist in Clan of the Cave Bear, that bright, courageous, and decisive little Cro-Magnon orphan girl who had the misfortune to be found and raised by thick-witted Neanderthals. Our daughter read the book when she was a child and emphatically announced, "If I have a daughter I'm going to name her Ayla." I have suggested to her that she probably identified with Ayla, particularly the part about being raised by thick-witted Neanderthals. Disclaimer: She does not always find my lame attempts to analyze her psyche particularly accurate or amusing.

Back to Ayla. She is in the exploratory stage now. That means she instantly grabs anything in reach and stuffs it in her mouth, with both hands, to assess by gnawing. For instance, she can grab a paper table napkin, stuff the whole thing in her mouth and gum it to shreds in the moments it takes a stiff-backed grandparent to bend over and pick up the spoon she just tossed on the floor. Her two parents, four grandparents, and four surviving great grandparents have provided her with a wealth of colorful, jangly, child-safe baby toys to satisfy her intellectual curiosity but, as her father notes, she definitely prefers the choking-hazard non-toys in her surroundings.

Ayla is impatient to crawl so she can more quickly reach fragile and dangerous articles. She can do push ups and she can stand up on her feet with her face mashed into the floor but she hasn't gotten all four limbs operating in sync yet. Her current traveling method involves the snowmobile technique wherein she uses her face like a sled runner (lubricated by a stream of saliva like a snail track) while her powerful legs serve as the traction propulsion device. Then she takes a couple of rollovers before assuming the snowmobile again. This can get her from the highly engineered baby teething toys to the skull and crossbones hazards as quick as a flash.

We take lots of outings with Ayla. She likes stroller rides, I guess because of the jiggling motion and changing scenery. She even tolerates latte stops if there are enough straws and table napkins to eat. Here are some pictures of some of our weekend outings. One notable stop was at an adult exercise station in one of the parks. This was particularly pleasing to Grandma who seems to be the genetic source of the boundless curiosity and energy passed to her descendants. Click any image for a larger view.

Willy C Becomes Rowdy Beaver

While driving from Liberal, Kansas (actual town name) to Kansas City on Monday my wife and I got hungry about 50 miles before Witchita. This was a natural consequence of the fact that it was two hours past lunch time. I wanted to stop at some reliable convenient place like one of the many golden arches and KFCs. This never works when traveling with my wife. She feels that every meal may be our last or at least our last in that part of the world and thus must be special. It must be delicious, low caloried, and memorably representative of the character and history of the region. This causes her to research all our AAA books and interview numerous passers by in quest of the ultimate dining experience. It drives me nuts.

As we were approaching Wichita, she read all the quick histories and restaurant reviews of Wichita from our AAA and other reference guides. She came up with the "must eat at" restaurant, Willy C's. We dutifully programmed the address of Willy's into our trusty new Garmin GPS. Ms. Garmin got us off at a certain exit then immediately directed "Turn left…" on some street then, "Arriving at destination on right." when we were in the left lane with lots of traffic on the right and no sight of anything called Willy. Almost immediately it was into, "Recalculating: Turn right on Elm St. Recalculating, Turn Left on Oak Street. Oh Golly, Go back". Then my wife starts in with, "No it's got to be on West street; go under the freeway." I respond, "I can't go under the freeway; I'm in the left turn lane." Then all hell breaks loose (this happens all the time) with wife, Ms. Garmin, and me all squawking at each other hysterically and wife insisting that I'm losing my temper and becoming an unsafe drivers so I should stop there in the middle of the freeway ramp and let her drive.

So, to make a long story more tolerable we somehow moved wife into the driver's seat and caught a few honks and middle fingers as we headed off with her in pursuit of Willy's. This time she resolved to stop right where Ms. Garmin said, even though it definitely did not say Willy C. (a rare moment of agreement with Ms. Garmin). It turns out that this was not Willy C's but the Rowdy Beaver. We went in and learned that Willy's had gone bust and the Rowdy Beaver had just opened two weeks ago in its place.

In the end it was good. The Rowdy Beaver was my kind of place. They had much paraphernalia for sale including, prominently, manikins with tiny very narrow-fronted thong bikinis that said Rowdy Beaver on the front. They had many micro brew beers and ales to choose from with good names like "Flying Dog Doggy Style pale ale". They had big burgers with thick beef patties and they weren't all soggy with that crappy mayonnaise and pickle relish that runs downs your forearms when you try to eat burgers at most of the fast food chains. There were lots of flies but we were able to swat them with carefully aimed blows of our menus. I really liked the place. I think my wife did too; she figured it was soooo authentic Witchita.

Crazy Woman Takes Charge

Why do I only think up a good response after the incident has passed?

Last week I was driving to the north rim entrance to the Grand Canyon when I saw some people standing in the road flailing their arms up and down. It was in a meadow area so I could clearly see the road beyond them. Other than a couple of parked cars and some more people on the shoulder there was nothing on the road, so this was a bit puzzling. As I approached more closely one woman began running toward me in the center of the road flapping her arms more wildly and looking quite angry. I had to stop because she was completely blocking the road. She ran up to my door still flapping her arms wildly and demanded, "Don't you know what this signal means?!" I tried to get my window open to hear her better but in my nervousness I accidentally had my finger on the wrong button so I kept opening and closing the rear window. Finally I opened my door so I could better communicate with her.

The lady continued raging, raving, and flapping her arms while blurting, "This means SLOW DOWN. There's been an accident up ahead!" Since I could see the roadway was completely clear ahead and I was completely stopped I reasoned that I had slowed down sufficiently soon and thoroughly to satisfy any reasonable person. I just gave her my best Jack Nicholson glower and only slightly snidely asked, "Well what do you want me to do about it?" This really set her off and she yelled, "I want you to SLOW DOWN!" Then she rushed at my door with both hands and tried to slam it. I don't like people getting physical with my car so I held it open until she stopped pushing, then closed it gently and proceeded very slowly on. When I got into the middle of the area she was guarding I saw a crunched up motorcycle off the road in the meadow and I could tell that the people on the shoulder were tending to a man lying on the shoulder, presumably the unfortunate rider.

The rider was wearing one of those pirate-like bandanas that bikers who disapprove of helmets use to protect their hard craniums during an accident. OK, maybe that remark is unfair. Perhaps he was wearing a helmet when the accident happened and Ms. Take Charge had wrenched it off his head oblivious to the dangers of neck injuries. So, anyway I proceeded on, hoping this unfortunate fellow would survive and feeling very annoyed at the bossy rude woman.

What was this woman? My school teacher wife said she was probably a school teacher because they instinctively and aggressively try to take control of any situation that looks like an emergency even if they don’t know what the hell they're doing. I just kept mulling over the answers I should have given her when she demanded, "Don't you know what this signal means?!" Perhaps I should have said, "I'm just back from Venezuela and there it means 'I'm from FARC and I want to kidnap you and hold you hostage for six years'". Or perhaps, "This is a national park so obviously I thought you were a wildly excited German tourist trying to share with the world that you had spotted a cute chipmunk eating a pine nut." Or maybe just, "I thought you were listening to a Rufus Thomas CD and just got an uncontrollable urge to leap out of your car and start doing the Funky Chicken dance in the middle of the road.

Anyway I guess I said the right thing. As it was, it irritated her enough to make her charge my car like a bison bull in rut. By the way, this isn't the first time this has happened to me. The previous time it was an almost identical situation except it was a lady police officer who went berserk. I know there are those who will say I'm from an era when men thought a woman saying "stop" really meant "go further" but this isn't true. In both cases I had female witnesses who attested to the fact that I had slowed sufficiently soon and thoroughly and that the berserk woman was truly delusional.

Old dogs can't even do OLD tricks!

I just went windsurfing in the Columbia River gorge…barely. Decades ago in the infancy of the windsurfing sport (when I first did this) sailing in the gorge was considered a badge of honor. You didn't have to excel, just survive. My son James prodded me there this time. He's a black belt windsurfer. Well I guess it's not a belt; it's a harness.

To be honest, in the heyday of my youthful windsurfing skill, nearly 20 years ago at about age 45, I was really a long board light wind sailor. My trips to the gorge could be easily counted on two hands and my successful jibes (the essential short board U-turn) could probably be counted on one hand. At least I could awkwardly water start, an essential skill for one who falls on his jibes.

Back to the present. When I arrived at the "Event Center" beach to attempt my sailing I had already make a bad decision by drinking too much coffee. This amplified my jitters which were already strong from fear of death or (worse yet) damaging some expensive equipment. I knew I was off to a bad start when my hand slipped off the rubber bootie that I was tugging on and socked myself in the groin almost causing me to fall off the stump I was sitting on. Somehow I mounted my inappropriately long skinny old Mistral Pandera board and made it out through the other crazy windsurfers and kite boarders to the middle where there was some real chop. Of course I fell off in my tack but then I somehow managed to remount with a rope start. I steamed back in to shore feeling relieved about missing all the other kiters and windsurfers until I hit an invisible submerged sand bar and broke off my fin screw.

I thought I was off the hook but unfortunately I found another fin screw and (with James' urging) made repairs with trembling hands. When I was done, I looked out and counted 15 kite boarders and 10 windsurfers slashing through the area where I proposed to sail. That was it for me; I didn't want to hurt them. My vision of myself was like one of those metal balls in a pin ball machine; round, stupid, totally at the mercy of the laws of physics and highly likely to collide with any of several colorful objects in my trajectory. I spent the rest of the day reading a book and snapping some photos of James.

I felt bad that I kind of weenied out. My best excuse, advanced age, was shot down when I saw that there were quite a few other wrinkled old prunes out there doing a good job of it. I do aspire to freshen my skills a bit in some less intimidating venues. Here are some pictures of James, not me.

We also did some hiking on the flanks of Mt. Hood on our final day in the vicinity. Here are some pictures of that. With all of these pictures, click to see an enlargement. There are also more pictures of these adventures on James' blog.

Granddaughter Swimming

Anna and Ayla have a swim in Kansas City motel pool.

Click snapshots below for a larger image. These were taken in Kansas City while Catherine helped Anna and Ayla survive a series of motels after starting her new job there. They were awaiting availability of their new apartment and the arrival of Joonas from Columbus with the moving truck.

Visiting the Crypts of Venezuela's Doctor Death

Today we bring you another blast from the past. The narrative below was written in the evening after our November 5, 2006 pilgrimage to the hacienda ruins of prominent German-born Dr. Gottfried Knoch. It continues the strangeness theme of this wacky, weird, and wonderful country that was also exploited in the post on Maria Leonza, the nude tapir rider.

Our adventure de la dia was a bush-whacking hike through steep mountainous jungles to the overgrown ruins of Dr. Gottfried Knoch. His hacienda, crypts, and laboratory date back to 1886. They are the legacy of this man, an apparent necrophiliac 19^th century doctor. Besides nice humanitarian stuff like offering free services to the poor, he also appears to have been a scientist in quest of a method of mummification to embalm bodies in a humid, tropical environment. Apparently that task is difficult in climates that are not extremely dry or perpetually below freezing.

The story of doctor Knoch appears to be in the genre of Frankenstein or Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde…except it's true! Dr. Knoch's great scientific work began with experiments on dogs and other small animals. After refining his methods, his work spread to humans. One of the complications of the process was the need to anticipate the onset of death and inject special mummification chemicals just before his patient's heart stopped beating. Apparently Dr. Knoch always timed it just right. After administration of the chemicals, his patients always passed away right on schedule.

Dr. Knoch's experiments may have met with some skepticism in the coastal community, causing him to move his work place. He built a home and laboratory several thousand vertical feet up a steep mountainside with a spectacular jungle overview of the Caribbean. Deprived of a willing population of patients, he was forced to develop his technique on his own family members. Among the beneficiaries were his daughter, his wife, and his nurse/mistress.

Our hike this morning started with an ascent in five, 10-passenger 4X4 vehicles up a treacherously narrow and twisting (but actually paved) road over the Avila Mountains that separate Caracas from the sea. After descending to 2 or 3 thousand feet altitude on the sea side of the mountain ridge, we reached the trailhead. There were lots of us: students, teachers, and family members. The trek in on foot was not long horizontally but was steep and overgrown with banana trees, briars, and every other kind of tree, grass, and brush known to thrive in the tropics. Mud, slippery rocks and insects added to the challenge. Well acquainted with the threat of chiggers, we hosed ourselves down with insect repellant. Some of the other's neglected to do the same. Our hearts go out to them.

Needless to say, there were many falls, skinned knees, and bruised buttocks. Catherine slipped on a rock and slid off the trail, but thanks to the entangling vegetation, did not take a long plummet.

After a sweltering hot ascent, we arrived at the remains of Dr. Knoch's mausoleum, just as a chilling mist blew in around us. (Why didn't we do this adventure on Halloween?) The mausoleum was a moss and fern covered tower reminiscent of some South and Central American Indian pyramids. It containing six open crypts, long since emptied by either souvenir hunters or a failure in the mummification process. Steep stone stairs led to the flat roof of the building which provided a splendid viewing platform over the mist covered jungle and distant Caribbean. There we ate our cheese, crackers and chocolate before bushwhacking our way down to the overgrown ruins of his hacienda and laboratory - a dark cellar-like place of stone or concrete. Returning the way we came, we arrived at our vehicles just as the mists turned to rain causing Catherine to turn a big banana leaf into an umbrella.

Perhaps this place and its history will inspire a really great movie some day – something in the style of an Indiana Jones thriller. Under my direction, it would probably turn out more like a 50's horror movie for the drive-in movie theater market. Uh…do they still have drive-in movies?

You may click the pictures to enlarge. In order they are, the mausoleum, the empty crypts, the one remaining wall of the hacienda with the doctors spiral symbol at the top, and a slightly "creeped out" visitor exiting the doctor's dank laboratory.

Current Granddaughter Pictures

After a steady string of Venezuela posts I'm going home to family now. Here are some new pictures of the foremost thing on my mind, our new granddaughter Ayla. Click to enlarge. For any visitors who don't know me, the handsome gentleman with white hair is not me. He's Aimo, Ayla's other Grandpa from Finland and Israel. I'm the ugly guy at the top left margin of the web page with a brazen parrot trying to steal his gold tooth.