American in Spain

When it comes to bad golf puns executed in the Sculpture genre, I think we have a winner. I found this porcine oddity on the side of a golf hole where my grandmother lives. These objects always baffle me because I am unable to avoid imagining myself in the artist’s position during the brainstorming process, wondering what the specifications, if any, for the piece might have been. Did someone specifically ask the artist for a statue of a sitting pig with golf clubs? Or was it a general “golfer pig” or “animal golfer”? Or did this idea spontaneously appear in someone’s noggin and only upon completion was a buyer sought? Were I a feline, this dosage of curiosity might be lethal.
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Homo sapiens sapiens is a pretty fascinating subspecies. Due to our intelligence and linguistic skills, we like to think of ourselves as thinking and reasoning about our behaviors, and we are insulted by scientists who describe our behaviors the same way they describe those of less intelligent animals. Personally, I’m fascinated by such simple, functional explanations of complex systems. That’s why I love the work of B. F. Skinner, Richard Dawkins, and Desmond Morris.
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This year, I finally got to show Marga one of my favorite American traditions: Thanksgiving dinner. As long as I live, “a proper Thanksgiving” in my mind will be those of my childhood at my grandparents’ house, my grandmother’s turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, peas, cranberry jello, and pumpkin pie with real whipped cream. This was my first Thanksgiving with my family since 2001. Rose-colored memories of The Good Old Days are hard to live up to, but my amazing grandmother did it. The only thing missing from the dinner table was my grandfather, who died three years ago. His absence was felt.
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It’s been cold and rainy all week. The snow line has tried to creep down from the mountains, but we remain snowless (just wet) down here at sea level. This is the mountain peak that I’ve visited with my in-laws, my parents, and some friends. Grrr… Winter sucks.
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Several friends highly recommended that we go to a special private ultrasound clinic. For 100€, we were told, you get much clearer pictures of your unborn child. We considered not doing it and saving the c-note, but in the end our curiosity got the better of us. Not to mention our bad experience with the public obstetrician. When our friends told us to be sure to bring a blank DVD with us, any doubts I had evaporated. Any doctor tech savvy enough to burn an optical disc must be good.
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There’s something about only visiting a foreign country occasionally that makes one crave certain products available only in that country, resulting in strong necessities desires to consume said products on each visit. Exactly what products reach this pedestal depend on your mood and environment when you first consume them. It’s very hard to predict. My cravings were pretty much everything my grandmother makes for her traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Marga’s were Papa John’s pizza and hushpuppies.
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Marga and I spent the night of Sunday, November 23rd, 2008, in a cabin on the top of Burkemont Mountain. The wind whipped, whistled and rattled. When we woke up at dawn, it was cold and drizzly outside. After a couple hours of coffee and sitting by the fire, I suggested we go for a walk, but I was unable to pull Marga from the toasty hearth, so I ventured out alone with my camera. Below are the photos I took.
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On Sunday, November 23rd, Marga and I “hosted” a cabin party at my good friend, Phil’s, mountain cabin on top of Burkemont Mountain, a well-known mountain in the southern part of my home county. Phil inherited the land and has built a wonderful little weekend cabin more-or-less singlehandedly. Between Phil’s handiwork and his wife, Donna’s, eye for interior decorating, they have created the most adorable, cozy spot perched atop a mountain with the most stunning sunset views. It was wonderful to see and keep in touch with old friends. We had a fabulous time.
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As you can see, things are getting pretty festive here at the Rasmussen household.
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One of my parents’ dogs is named Blue. He’s a border collie with blue merle hair color, hence his name. So naturally when they found a bottle of wine called Our Dog Blue, they had to purchase it and keep it, unopened, for display. Perhaps one of them can share how they found or were given the bottle. I was showing the Marga the bottle, which is blue glass, I noticed where the winery was located, and I had to take a picture of the bottle label and the dog in question.
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