OK, I admit… I’ve been lagging on the pictures
I guess there’s a desire from family and friends to see more pictures of Mikey.
So, here you go…

They are more or less in order, from January (~9 months) until July (just over 16 months).

All seems to be going well.

Enjoy.

We just opened a jar of tomato juice, and I just wanted to share the flavor…

Rich, aromatic, full-bodied, chunky, sweet, pulpy, ruthlessly red with off-yellow seeds, and very-very healthy. I could taste it. Anyone could taste it. It is undeniable. So fresh and alive, it’s easy to tell that it leads to good life.

It contained nothing but tomatoes: crushed from our own vines, and canned according to ancient Ukrainian tradition. OK, I made that part up – but it sounded good. I’m sure it’s just ancient tradition that has been (also) passed down, generation to generation, in this Ukrainian locale.

It was real, it was wow, it was freshly delicious – without a doubt, there’s nothing malicious. Chilled in the refrigerator and straight into a glass – it tasted as if we had canned some pizzazz. It didn’t need pepper, didn’t need salt, didn’t need sugar, and definitely not malt. No additives, no preservatives, not fortified, not mortified. It was sunshine in a glass – pure – with class.

I have to admit that I noted some impurities. Actually… perhaps, there were small specks of dirt-uities. Nope, there was not grit or crunching – thankfully – just a few tiny black flecks, for palatable munching.

My wife said it was flavor, and I believe her.

So fresh, so real, so full of life… should I have more?

I think I just might…….

Long live the помидор

So I have to confess something. My BIL (brother in law) is a very sweet guy. Considerate and caring, simple and genuine, and he possesses many endearing qualities. However, note that BRAINPOWER is NOT one of his strong-points alluded to in the aforementioned list. Nor is vision, insight, understanding, logic, comprehension, aptitude, intelligence, cleverness, awareness, wisdom, ability, forethought, or knowledge.

My wife told me this story, and I could NOT believe it. Really… I was stupefied. In truth, I could believe it, but I didn’t really want to — and I had to see it for myself before accepting it as reality. To me, it’s something you might see on a reality TV show: real, but surreal.

Now as I tell you about this little Home Improvement episode (it really does remind me a bit of the TV show), I’m sure you will undoubtedly say “I know someone like that.” So it’s not as if this is a uniquely Ukrainian quality (or deficiency). It definitely happens elsewhere on the planet. After all, he had to have acquired the ability to perform such fixit feats from experiences in his past (parenting, childhood, teenage years, work (furniture design), etc…. and YES, he does design furniture, which makes this EVEN HARDER TO BELIEVE.

However, this is a true story, it DID happen to our family, and it DID HAPPEN AT OUR FAMILY SUMMER HOUSE (Dacha). For me, this is like “hitting below the belt,” and strikes a bit too close to home than I’d like to admit. But then again, I’m submitting this family secret to the entire internet-connected world through my weblog.

This being said, I’d like to state, for the record, that Andre is a brother-IN-LAW. And there is no, lest I repeat, NO SHARED BLOOD between us. Alrighty then…

Here’s how the story goes…

The summer house outer door (there are two doors at the entrance) tends to expand and contract with changing seasonal influences. In the fall/winter, it absorbs moisture from the surrounds (air) and, consequently, expands a bit. Sure, sure, the door was never hung quite perfectly anyway (many years ago), so when it expands a bit, the door swells to the point where it begins to bind in the door jamb. Initially just a little snug, it did seem to be getting worse as the Fall progressed. No BIG deal, but it did become more and more difficult to close the door completely – and subsequently, opening it became less easy as time wore on.

So one solution is to fix the hinge(s) so that the door hangs properly! What a concept!! But that would require WAY too much effort. Removing the door, unscrewing the hinges, re-surfacing the jamb and/or chiseling away a bit of wood (if needed), re-attaching the hinges, and re-hanging the door. Whoa — soooooo much effort (not)! Incidentally, this was done without my knowledge or supervision, when I was on holiday back in the USA.

Another solution –> you can see below. Simply shave off the offending edge of the door so that it doesn’t bind in the frame anymore. I think he pulled off about 2-3 mm.

Well, that worked for a little while, but of course the door continued to expand with the onslaught of moisture included in the Ukrainian weather.

So the next idea is the real shocker. Shaving the door, though not elegant or pretty, seems like a logical approach, right? Especially if it’s just a “summer house,” and the cosmetic appearances of most everything out in the Ukrainian countryside is a bit “rough around the edges.”

Anyhow, the door is fabricated from several pieces of wood, needless to say. It appeared that the joints between the peripheral boards were the primary culprits of the expanding problem. So BIL reckoned that putting brackets on the door might prevent further expansion. Plus, if we squeezed the door together before installing the brackets, we may, quite possibly, eliminate the the door’s unshapely inadequacies altogether.

Of course, we didn’t have the proper brackets — which is why I balked at the idea when I was asked to fix the door before my trip to San Diego. But, that didn’s stop BIL.

So from the outside, this is what our door looks like. Pretty standard, I suppose.

From the inside, it looks like this:

So you can already see the finished product: Brackets (8) have been installed on the inner surface of the door in an attempt to hold the door “together,” preventing further expansion.

Now I have to say, it even looks OK. Perhaps it’s not the most attractive solution, but remember, we are at our summer shack, I mean house. It’s still a work in progress, big time, and someday if we need to buy a new door we can do it. But for the time being, perhaps slapping on some brackets (however flimsy they may be — and trust me, they aren’t made of the thickest steel I’ve ever seen.

Nevertheless, from a birdseye view, all is OK. Good job Bro!

Upon closer inspection, below is a close-up photograph of the bracket (top right one).

Note how the door doesn’t even look like it’s coming apart, but what the hell — let’s mount some brackets anyway. We have them, and we have the screws, so why not.

Well, how do I say this ?????….

Above is a screw on the left, and a nail on the right. Right?

Sure, it’s obvious.

And don’t you know…

… you use a screwdriver (above, left) to install screws, and a hammer (above, right) to install (hammer in) nails.

I think this is pretty straightforward, and something we learn in kindergarden (or earlier). Am I right?

Well on this day, the day the brackets were installed, BIL was running a bit short on time. Plus, it was a bit cold, and he couldn’t be bother to find the screwdriver. And, it was tooooo far to walk the 10 meters to look for the drill, and way too difficult to try to find an extension cord.

Soooo, have you guessed it yet?

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

* * * * * * * * *

That’s it,

Time’s up!

* * * * * * * * *

I SHIT YOU NOT…

Andre HAMMERED IN THE SCREWS TO MOUNT THE BRACKETS

He couldn’t be troubled to extend the energy required to find/use a screwdriver, and he was too lazy to get the right electric tools for installing the brackets properly.

So, I have to say it again, with my eyes closed, hands covering my face in despair, head lowered in front of me…

HE HAMMERED THE SCREWS

I don’t even know what else to say. I am completely dumbfounded, and even though he’s not a blood-brother, I’m ashamed. What in God’s name was he thinking? Does he NOT know that threads on a screw are intended to SLICE their way through the wood — and that is the ONLY way that they would/could function as a screw? Holy-moly.

Am I alone on this one? What is going on? Where am I? What am I doing here? Somebody help!!!!

Get me OUTTA HERE!!!!!   Mommy!

If he would have killed himself while installing the brackets, somehow, he just might have won a 1st place Darwin Award.

What a day.

Today was one of those days that needs to be documented. Highs, lows, and everything in between.

We start off early, waking up at 7am. A bit earlier than I like, but hey, we had things to accomplish today. The first of which was to make sure my wife was, satisfied. Needless to say, the day started off quite well. I headed to the kitchen at 7:30 to have a cup of tea and a bite of tvarog (baked cheesy stuff) for breakfast.

We packed up our usual Dacha gear, and headed out on our first errand – picking up the Mom’s good (long time) friend Svetlana (Sveta). No worries… we all hop in the car after depositing our belongings into the trunk of the Russian built, silver, 2006 Lada. Bro had lent us his car, and he was bitter about deciding to do it. He left AT 7:30 to make an appointment he scheduled the day before. His girlfriend waited another half hour and hitched a ride with us to the Metro station. So, we departed our beloved apartment on the Left Bank, injected 100 Hrivna ($20) into the petrol tank, and swooshed over the Moskva Bridge into Kiev (right bank, downtown area). We dropped of Luda at Petrovka, and picked up Svetlana with time to spare. After pleasantries and introductions, we drove towards the city Center on our second errand: checking out Sveta’s daugher’s unused apartment in downtown Kiev. Actually, it’s her husband’s apartment.

The daughter and her husband (a big-wig with a cell phone company) had two kids and grew out of the 2BR apartment after 7 years. They moved up the street into a 180 sq. meter apartment (quite large 5BR I’m told). The thing is, Helen and I are needing to get the hell out of “Dodge,” so to speak. If you recall, we’ve lived in Troeschina (practically a slum) with the somewhat dysfunctional (IMHO) family for 18 months… and now that we are expecting a little guy (in March), it’s time to get real. In a nutshell, I love my mother in law, but the cultural divide is more than that — it’s an enormous chasm that would dwarf the Grand Canyon. I need out – especially because we have a little guy on the way, I want to provide my wife with a happy environment in which to prepare for and have a baby in (which is not the situation in our current environment – though I don’t mean to say it’s that bad, really — it’s just not exactly my ‘cup-o-tea’).

So we look at the apartment, and I’m in heaven. Overall, it’s a somewhat spacious 2BR with a nice layout, it’s centrally located (more or less), it’s secure, and it even has a decent Southern view. Sure, it’s not a penthouse suite or anything, but it’s fairly nice by my learned Kiev standards. It would definitely suffice for the next 9 months. Ahhhh…. the freedom…. can’t you just smell it? I can.

As George Michael would say: FREEDOM!…. FREEDOM!…. You’ve gotta give for what you take!  And trust me, we’ve given for the past 18 months; now I think it’s time to take a bit, for sanity and health. There’s even a little spot for my Dnepr (motorcycle) over the winter, where I doubt anyone will mess with her if settled under a nice cover. The apartment even has 2 bathrooms, so when the wife drops a bomb in #1, I can just pop on over to #2!

Moving on – so far so good! All is well, and we leave the apartment. We were heading off to the dacha for some mushroom hunting and relaxation. It had been ~2 years since Sveta had been to our dacha, and since that time we have added onto our little house in the country quite a bit: the kitchen, bathroom, and extra room. Plus we have heaters, a water pump, and real plumbing. O Joy!

We make it to a main junction in the heart of Kiev called Petrovka (where we dropped Luda off earlier) when BLAM… I lose power. I’ve driven enough and experienced enough mechanical failures in “my time” to know that this was serious. “SHIT” I said to myself (and the rest of the car, though only my wife knew the meaning). My wife, seated next to me, said “what? … What is it?”

I said we lost power!

We are bummed.

We coasted from the top of the overpass and stopped just beyond a petrol station. I open the hood, dreary-eyed, knowing that whatever I find there ain’t gonna be pretty. I took a peek under te car and there was no problem. So no big seals/gaskets broke, no oil or coolant spilling, no transmission dragging on the pavement. Initial inspection in the engine compartment = no problem. No loose wires, not broken bits, no grinding parts. Hmmm… I try to start the motor again. It just spins. It felt like no compression… but I knew this was impossible based on what had happened. Sure, perhaps one valve could go, but that would likely sound bad! Upon calling Andre (brother and owner), he suggested to “wiggle the spark plug wires.” Yeah. Uh-ha. Sure. Why I even wasted a nanosecond listening to his ideas, I don’t know. But that’s all I gave it – 1ns.

I immediately dismissed anything he, or anyone else, had to say. I have had numerous experiences with Russian mechanical advice. Often useless, seldom productive, and occasionally destructive. Nope, I’m not listening to them anymore unless they have a thick coat of grease already under their fingernails.  Russian men are ALWAYS willing to give their advice, and they love to tinker. Before you know it, you’ve got 5 guys there ripping apart your vehicle. No way, Jose. Not today. I knew that I knew how to diagnose/fix anything better than anyone else around – yes, even better than the guys at the gas station. What can I say – I’m extremely mechanically inclined. Facts are facts.

I lift the hood and peer to the left side of the in-line, 4-cyl, sideways mounted 2.0-liter, 8-valve, overhead-cammed motor. I see a slight space between the timing belt cover and the motor. I lift its plastic frame back a bit and peer in the crack. Lo and Behold – I see the bare gear emanating from the overhad camshaft. There’s no belt. Again, NO BELT THERE. Excellent – and – SHIT! Excellent that I figured out the problem, and Shit, what the hell are we going to do about it? It’s a Sunday and we are at a gas station. There’s no such thing as Triple-A here.

Wouldn’t you know it – the first frickin’ time I drive my brother’s car in over a month, the over-aged timing belt snaps. Why me? This shit is supposed to happen to the owner, no? He drives it like an idiot every damn day –> WHY did this happen to me? Well, I know: it happened to me because I’m the only one that could rationally diagnose and determine the true cause of the problem without taking it to a repair station and saying “I dunno, it just stopped working.” Also, we are supposed to inherit the car as soon as he buys a new car. So, I was destined to try to troubleshoot something under the hood before taking ownership. Moreover, it happened because it was MUCH better than if it had happened while my wife was using it to go to work, by herself, while crossing the Dnipro River on the Moskva Bridge. That would be extremely dangerous, to say the least.

So, I break out my Leatherman, because that’s the only tool I have with me.

Using mechanically inappropriate techniques (pliers would not be my first tool of choice here), I remove the bolts that kept the timing belt cover on the motor. Indeed, after removal, it was obvious what had happened: the belt snapped where a “tooth” was missing, and just after (or before, depending on which way the motor rotated)a point where 2 other teeth were missing. The belt was obviously old, and had not been replaced since the car) was purchased. Good Job Andre… Good Job. I appreciate that. The timing belt, in case you didn’t know Andre, is supposed to be checked at 50,000 km, and most definitely replaced by 60,000. The odometer says 67,800 km. Again, Thanks Bro!

I show the belt to Mom and Sveta, who were standing behind the car, and they touch their faces with both hands in slight horror. The exclaim “Kashmar” and “Ujas” — basically saying “The Horror” in a shocking sort of way. (Kinda nasty, but it reminds me of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse now). So as I’m telling my wife that we are going nowhere, she befriends a very kind, VERY religious man who was filling up at the petrol station.

Because of his inherent generosity (obviously), he offered to help tow us around Obolon (suburb where we were located). I was skeptical. He looked sorta like George from Seinfeld. Short, glasses, balding, and clearly a similar “way” about him. Of course, George on Seinfeld is kniving in a lot of ways, where this guy was quite pure and innocent. Nevertheless, we were to find out later that: 1) he was Jewish, turned Evangelist?; 2) he was traveling with his mother (who was in unhappily resting in the passenger seat) and whom LOOKED like George’s mother in Seinfeld!!! Holy crap; 3) he was married for 8 years but divorced, and now lives with his Mom (who, again, was in the passenger seat); and 4) He knows Obolon because he used to live there with his wife. This situation is commonplace here in Ukraine. Since everyone inherited their apartments/houses/land, all the kids just live at home and spend their meager wages on booze, cell phones, cars, and fashion. Why should they move out… Mom cooks and cleans for them!!!

So, although it was Sunday, we proceeded in the high hopes of finding an open repair establishment. The overly kind gentleman (we’ll just call him George, though his name was Oleg) opened the hatchback to his 1.6L Lada (very small car), and brandished a sparkling new tow strap – obviously he was looking for an occasion to use it. I took it on faith that everything was going to work out — and I just had to roll with it (pun intended). He hooked it to the tow loop on the front part of my Lada’s frame, and then semi-attached it to the back of his car. When the tension increased in tow, it clearly imparted inappropriate strain upon his fledgeling, wimpy, plastic, bendable bumper. Pathetic, but it worked.

Fine. He drove OK, and I did my best to keep a bit of tension on the bright yellow strap (without power brakes), trying not to slam into him. I turn my hazards on. To keep it a bit shorter than my memory recalls, I’ll leave out the the minutia of the first 3 service stations we visited — they were all were closed, and no parts were to be found either – we need a timing belt and a tensioner. However, one moment was unforgettable and worth describing: on the way to the third place, we made an illegal left turn — RIGHT in front of two cops. Needless to say, they pulled both of us over , not that I had a choice in the matter

I stayed planted in my seat, while George got out of the car and spoke to the Militzia. Of course, he stopped right in the middle of an intersection. Russians do that a lot too… they don’t care what kind of mayhem it causes. People had to keep going around us… blah, blah, blah… and of course, I couldn’t do anything about it: I was, quite literally, powerless. (I suppose I could have pushed both cars, but screw that – I already pushed my car backwards to the original gas station for the more detailed inspection). After about 5 minutes of George sitting IN the cop car, obviously requesting a ticket as opposed to offering the standard 20 Hrivna payoff that the cops always get. Remember that George is as straight-laced as it gets.

He couldn’t possibly participate in an act of corruption? Could he?

OH-NO! Not my little Georgey!

Anyway, after 5 minutes George’s mother gets out of their car and starts blabbering in Russian: translated- “He’s tooo nice. He’s always too nice. We have errands to run, and we’ve been trying to run them for over a day now — and he just keeps helping people.” And on and on. She’s pacing, obviously pissed and frustrated. I guess George truly is hopelessly helpful – in an self-defeating sorta way. I think to myself, ‘this is going downhill, and fast.’

The cop issued the ticket, George, walked quickly back to his car and said to us that everything was normal. No worries. Let’s go. Well, after the 3rd and 4th failed attempts at finding a mechanic, I was sure we were doomed. Moreover, we were driving AWAY from our house, and I was getting bitter.

On our 5th (probably not final if it hadn’t have succeeded) drove by a small, single “grease-monkey” garage entitled “Diagnostics.” George, as he had done at the past 4 stations, takes the lead and speaks with the mechanic at the garage, as he had done at the previous 3 stations. Nobody else was there needing service, so indeed, the mechanic was willing to work. No surprise there. But it was a surprise that he was open on a Sunday, and ready to help us. Even more of a surprise, he seemed to be a nice guy! He said to go down the road and buy the part we needed, and he’ll get started on the car.

Helen went with George and his Mom, and got an earful. George is an evangelist. What the means, exactly, I’m not sure (except what I read on Wikipedia). Anyhow, he passed on some pamphlets outlining his religious thoughts – attempting to persuade my wife into becoming a member of his church. Needless to say, he had no idea that my wife was both a psychologist and an athiest. She had some fun toying with his brain – but that’s for her to tell you about.

I kept an eye on the mechanic (Igor) as he prepared the vehicle for timing belt transplant. I attempted to help whenever I could: I held the light over the engine cavity, I joked in my limited Russian, and a told him how much I appreciated the naked women on the walls. Before too long, though it took a solid 20 minutes, Helen, George, and Mom returned to the shop. All the while Mom and Sveta were gabbing out on the sidewalk… not worrying about a thing (now that we got towed to an open service station).

Helen handed me the belt and tensioner (combined $23), and I placed it under the hood (ready for action) after peering into the box. Another 15 minutes pass, and the mechanic tells me to try to start the motor. OK. Nothing happens. Ooops, he forgot to put on the timing gear. He attaches that after chuckling, and it starts normally! Wooo-hooo! He finished that job, and also fixed the emergency brake, which was obviously non-functional when the car nearly rolled off the rack in the shop.

In the end, Igor overcharged us. Why… because I’m a Yank! That’s why. The bastard. But hey, can you blame him? If I had a [presumably rich] American come into my garage needing some serious repair work, I’d probably try to charge him a bunch too! It was only $40 for an hour of labor… but it should have been half that much. But I didn’t care. He was a nice guy, quite friendly, and good at what he does. Plus, he let me watch everything he did — and I liked that!

I also liked his wallpaper.

Thus, 2-3 hours late, we head off to our dacha. All was going well, until we got to approximately 5 km from our house. We saw the police… again. I’ve seen them on numerous occasions, but I’ve never been stopped while driving. As luck would have it, the officer waved his black and white striped baton at me and my car.

“Shit,” I exclaimed.

My wife, in the passenger seat, said “what?”

I said “he’s pulling us over.”

She said, out loud, “KEEP GOING!”

Ha! Yeah right. I’m gonna just keep driving even though a Russian cop told me to pull over! I didn’t give that another instant of thought, and I quickly pulled over onto the shoulder. The cop meandered over to the car and leaned over. Helen began conversing with him. In a nutshell, he pulled us over because the hood of the car had a large scrape on it. (This happened a month or two ago when a truck backed up onto the front of Andre’s car). Supposedly the police are obligated to pull over any car with damage to the front of the vehicle, in order to insure that a person was not involved in the incident. So, he did. He looked at the registration, and that was fine. Interestingly, the vehicle’s registration is a card (like a license) that is kept in one’s wallet — and you have to remember to transfer this when lending your car to someone. Of course we always remember, and we had the registration. The officer also asked to see Helen’s passport, because her name is on the registration as a licensed operator. That being said, all she has to do is be IN the vehicle, and anyone can drive (like me, her husband).

Following the passport inquiry, he asked for my license. Reluctantly, but without hesitation, I handed him my California driver’s license. He sort of chuckled and said “oh, Americanski?” I said “da.” He said “Kalifornieye,” and I again said “Da.” He followed by saying “ah, Zwartzenegger… Ya znayoo Zwartzenegger” (I know Schwartzenegger).

At that point, I knew he was cool.

He chatted a bit more in Russian, looked at my license again, and returned the documents. We left as soon as he walked beyond the rear bumper — and headed straight for our dacha, as quickly as possible.

So, though there was potential for further drama, we arrived at our dacha in semi-normal fashion. We immediately proceeded to eat a big lunch (we were all starving) – including dessert and tea (of course). Within 5 minutes of finishing lunch, Helen and I were off to do some mushroom hunting. To keep it brief, we got a bunch of mushrooms (2-3 kg). Tonight I made a super-rich cream sauce a-la my brother’s (the chef’s) recommendations, which was poured over some perfectly cooked pasta – al dente. Yummy!

HOT DAMN!

It turned out soooooooo tasty with those wild mushrooms.

Hold on, I skipped a bit.

While mushroom hunting we had a couple of encounters… with snakes. Damn. I saw one and backed up. I turned my head, and I was maybe 1 foot from a second snake. Sure, these were only a couple of feet long — but just the sight of a snake sends shivers up my spine. My hairs stood on end, and I sped off. It took a few minutes for the “willies” to ware off. Ugh… I hate snakes.

Toward the end of the hunt, Helen encountered one. Unfortunately, she STRADDLED the snake without even noticing it!!! She had her eyes set on a mushroom. But when she kneeled down, she heard a “hiss.” Then again, another “hissssssssss.” She didn’t know what the hell it was… and then she saw it — right under her crotch! She screamed, shrieked, jumped, yelled, and hollered all at the same time. It was the scariest sound I’ve ever heard come out of her lungs. After that she was shaking with fright. Her hairs were standing up, and any sensation was just too creepy to deal with. No, it wasn’t poisonous, but that doesn’t take away from the fear instilled by seeing a snake between your legs (other than my snake).

Whew!

So we hunted for the mushrooms for nearly 4 hours, right behind our house in the “local” forest. We are really beginning to learn the local environment, and starting to learn where the “good patches” of mushrooms grow. We returned to home around 6pm, just in time to pack up and head out. We put our stash into the car, I adjusted the headlights (which had been needed since I remember), and headed home.

I expected a bit of traffic, as always, on a Sunday night heading back to Kiev. However, this was horrible. It’s a two lane road (one lane in each direction). But of course, that doesn’t stop the Russians. Ohhhhh Nooooo. A High percentage of Russians think they deserve to do whatever they want. They think that putting on their flashers and driving in the opposing traffic’s lane gives them a “green light” to drive past EVERYONE that is waiting patiently for the traffic to subside.

No shit. It’s ridiculous.

THESE PEOPLE HAVE A SCREW LOOSE!

I WANTED TO STRANGLE THEIR F*CKING NECKS.

At one point, there were 4 cars wide… all heading towards a 2-lane dam crossing, one lane in each direction. Why 4 lanes wide, you ask? Well, my lane and the opposite direction = 2 lanes. But then there were cars PASSING ME ON BOTH SHOULDERS!!!

ARE YOU KIDDING? Am I in the Twilight Zone? Aren’t we all trying to go the same way?

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? DIPLOMATS? DIGNITARIES? PRESIDENTS? HONORARY ASSHOLES? Thankfully it’s only about 5% of the people that think they are privileged — otherwise it would be a total dogpile.

That being said, it took us over an hour to go about 2 miles (probably less). After a helluva day, that was painfu. I had to turn on my iPod when the persistent Russian babbling from the back seat (Mom and Sveta) came paralyzingly close to sending me over the edge.

Needless to say, we eventually made it across the damn, and proceeded to drop of Sveta in Kiev. We headed home, arriving safe and sound.

It was a long day, but the mushrooms made it worth it. Then again, I hate it when I can feel hairs turning from brown to gray on my head — for no good reason.

Hell of a long post today… time for bed.

Peace!

We live in the city. But in the summer months we spend quite a bit of time at our summer house. It’s about 45 km from our apartment, and serves many purposes, not the least of which is sanity and a sense of grounding with mother Earth.Needless to say, the summer house is a virtual bounty of life. Everything grows, lives, dies, wilts, withers, blows, ages, wears, blossoms, suckles, spreads, and passes. It’s the circle of life, and it is everywhere at our dacha. Of course we (as “man”) are attempting to control our environment as best we can to make life “comfortable,” but when it comes down to it, we are visitors here just like all the other plants and animals. It feels inherently different in the City.

So as you might guess, we have snakes. Yes, some are poisonous, but many are not. I can never remember – do the small yellow dots mean they are deadly, or harmless? Anyhow, we were peacefully eating breakfast a couple of months ago (early June), and I glanced over at the sunlight beaming through the glowing lilys – right onto the belly of a green, slithering, legless, sniffing-tongue, scaly varmant. It didn’t scare me so much as it surprised me. I rubbed my eyes, opened my pupils a bit, and refocused my aging lenses. Nothing changed. It WAS a snake. We hopped up, took a closer look, and deemed the snake to be “harmless.” It was not like it’s highly poisonous counterpart (without the dots, I believe) – the meadow viper??? Not sure. Damn, just the viper attached to the name gives me the willeeees.

Here’s a picture: Sneaky, isn’t he?

So we got some sticks and a fishing net, and tried to corral it so that we could get a better look. Unfortunately, he was sort of deep in the flowerbed, and we couldn’t easily capture it. After about 15 minutes, and playing “catch me if you can” as it slithered between the bases of several bushes, we lost it. Great. Gone. Just what I wanted – to be thinking about the slithering reptile casing our gazebo while my back is turned towards the table, peacefully eating my oatmeal. I bet it’s hungry. I bet it likes human.

Then, another episode -

It was nightfall. The wolves were howling, the wind was blowing, the lightning striking. Not really, that was just for effect. But… The first star was peering through the stratosphere. We were starting our evening fire in our Russian standard outdoor iron oven (sort of a BBQ). We hear a croak. Several times. And then a whine. And then a croak, and a whine. And another.

The cats became equally interested and were moving about. It was emanating from the corner of the serai (our shed), which is connected to our old (but still functional) outside kitchen. It was near the steps, and coming from under the woodpile. Surprise, surprise.

It was dark and we couldn’t see, so we fetched our headlamp and double-A Mag-lite. Carefully inspecting the area we expected to see a toad or two. The chornie-belie (black-white) cat, a demonstrated hunter, had helped focus our inspection. We couldn’t place the sound, as it was definitely unusual for a toad to squalk like that. Anyhow, under the illumination of our flashlights, we lifted a small piece of plywood – and there it was.

Shit. A snake. I lifted it again and took a picture (so that I wouldn’t have to get too close). I’ve never heard a snake make those sounds before = “no way!”
Let’s look at the picture and see if it’s a viper. If not, we can catch it. Looking at the picture, the situation became far clearer. It was a toad… and a snake. But the toad was getting the wrong end of this deal — it was being eaten by the snake. Either the toad was bigger than the snake had anticipated, or the attack had just literally (5 minutes before) taken place and the deal had not quite been consummated yet.

Have a look at the picture: I didn’t want to disturb mother nature, so this is the best picture I got.

I guess that’s what they do around here… but I’d never quite seen it before. The snake was incapacitated by its appetite. We proceeded to go back and look several times, re-lifting the wood, and the animals hadn’t moved an inch. Caught in the throws of death, the frog was muttering its last sounds.

We returned in the morning, and (not surprisingly) no trace was left. But it goes to show that life is all around us.

Oh, I almost forgot. There was another snake I almost forgot to mention. It was INSIDE one of our bags of concrete, INSIDE our fourier, on the way into our main house. Yikes!  What am I doing here???
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I wrote this above post a little while ago, and between writing and physically attaching the pictures/posting the text, I came across a few other snakes during my brief trip back to California! All at my Dad’s house: first, a black racer (basically harmless, cool looking snakes) that was exiting the tomato patch – he was about 4 feet long; second a rattlesnake hanging out in a small culvert used for water drainage – it rattled at us and returned to its shelter; lastly, a rattlesnake relaxing next to the water tank right near the tub used to offer a bit of water relief from the desert heat.

The last example has particular relevance because it is very possibly the SAME snake that BIT my father about 6 weeks ago. Yep, he was walking by the tanks and stepped on the damn thing. If you know my father, you know he’s blind (or, for all intents and purposes, blind – he sees very, very little out of only one eye). Anyhow, rattlesnakes are supposed to rattle before biting, right? In fact, they are supposed to rattle before you even get anywhere close enough to step on them, RIGHT??? But this little bastard bit first and rattled afterward (admittedly, after being stepped on ). Anyway, thanks buddy. Thanks for the warning.

In the end, Dad had something on the order of 13 anti-venom treatments over the course of the next ~36 hours at 2 different hospitals. He is fine, and all is well — just a bit scary if you ask me.

Here’s my tribute picture:  Modified from a blind veteran’s golf tournament held in Iowa each year!

I’ve had more snake adventures, but those are either private, or for another post…

We rode the motorcycle out to the field the other day. Unfortunately the cows were on their way back home.

Download When Cows Attack

Thankfully the cows recognized us, and let us go about our business…

So yeah, I’m stuck in the cold war mentality. Clearly. Because I got chills up my spine when I saw these fighter jets flying overhead, outside our Kiev home.

What happened was…

I’m doing some work on my computer, sitting in my well-broken in chair, and I hear a jet echoing through the open balcony windows. It was a fairly familiar sound … you know, something along the lines of a commercial Airbus or Boeing that flies people all over the world, every day of the year. What’s strange about it is that there really isn’t all that much air traffic (plenty of ground traffic) in Ukraine, and so it’s quite infrequent (as opposed to the USA, where it occurs every few minutes) that we even see any kind of aircraft in the skies above.

That reminds me though, I captured this sweet pic of a helicopter flying around our dacha:

Back to my bomber story… This time, however, I heard the big jet approach quite quickly. It was close, and low. I’m not sure how close, but it was very close. It was unusually loud, and (presumably) immediately overhead. I couldn’t see it, but there was a GIGANTIC and FOCUSED shadow on the apartment building across the street — so I know it was low and close. “Whatever,” I uttered to myself — and I went back to my laptop. Even if I ran outside, it wouldn’t be fast enough to catch a glimpse of it. Foreshadowing my own story, I think it could have been this beast. An An-124 Transport.

The next think I know, I see 4 fighter jets flying in formation. These were significantly higher (I think), but in retrospect, perhaps they were at the same altitude, and serving as an escort. But then, another set of 4 fighters. They were close enough, and clear enough, that I recognized the MiG fighters from my Cold War experiences. This definitely was unusual.

And then again… 2 more fighters. This time, I whipped out my camera and snapped a pic of one of them:

After some detective work, I realized that, thankfully, these birds had the markings of Ukrainian Air Force jets. I think you’ll agree. Furthermore, they aren’t MiGs, they are Su-27′s. Well, at least the latter 2 jets were Su-27′s — I think some of the others may have been true MiGs. That my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

The Russians don’t seem to be extending their Georgian campaign into Ukraine… YET!!!! So, no reason to panic, Mom!

We (sorta) have a cat named Yoda; after the famous Jedi Master (of course) that helps to maintain the positive energy in the Universe. I hope you can see the resemblance.

Here she is chillin’ on Craig’s lap during his visit. I can’t tell which one was enjoying it more, can you?

Here she was about 2 weeks ago, pregnant and tired.

She’s not actually our cat: She belongs to the neighborhood, and probably more accurately, to the “peasants.” Yes, they are called peasants, for real.

In case you didn’t realize it, I’m referring to life at our Dacha again. Animals tend to roam freely out in the country – often from house to house in search of grub – and this one has taken a fancy to us and the sausage we routinely provide; kinda like we’ve taken a fancy to her. She’s sweet, has some sort of inner ear infection (shakes her head a lot), and possesses very strange meow… but hey, beggers can’t be choosers, and she sorta chose us. She’s not the most beautiful кошка (female cat), but she’s quite friendly, purrs when you pet her, and is a total slut. She had a litter last year, and I think at least two of the offspring (both males) are still hanging around the village. One of them, a black and white spotted one, is also friendly and loves the sausage we bring every weekend. We even make special stops just for those four-legged varmants. They like the bologna type, the meaty/grissly kind, and especially the liverwurst stuff.

Here’s the чёрный у белый кот (black and white cat):

Because of the relationship that we’ve developed over the course of the last year (last summer/fall and this spring/summer), Yoda has obviously come to like us a lot. She spends most of her time around our place, and one can tell, she has begun to think of our dacha as her home, too.

Here I am chillin’ with her:

I think she has shied away from the peasant’s house, because life is definitely more raw over there. (you should know the peasant’s house is not more than a mere 75 meters (and a fence) away).

Rawness… I’ll give you an example: In late May, Yoda was also pregnant. We were not at our dacha as frequently as we are now (which is basically every weekend for 3 or 4 days (Friday-Monday), with Mom being there almost full-time), and Yoda had no choice but to have her kittens where she thought they would be safe and where she could continue to obtain regular sustenance (particularly milk from the cow, and table scraps). The peasants, on the other hand, had (have) no interest in supporting any more cats, as they already have 6 or 7 — they usually see the animals simply as just more mouths to feed. So, as cruel as it may sound, they simply drowned the kittens a day or two after they were born (as soon as they were discovered). I don’t know how many there were, but they were all sacrificed. Wait, I was just told that there were supposedly 5 in that litter.
Anyway, life goes on… and as soon as the (dead) kittens failed to suckle, the mother began moaning again and roaming the dirt roads and back yards — through the night, and day, and night, and day…. She was obviously feeling the motherly instinct more than ever, and proceeded to get knocked-up again.

Unbelievable – it was the first time I had seen cats do it. Normally you hear their cries of passion under the cover of darkness… but no, not this time. This time I was working on my motorcycle in broad daylight, and she was parading around the yard, running around the house, from back yard to front yard, to the neighbors yard and back again – with a small gaggle of 3 or 4 males attentively following her every movement. She must have been wafting some hardcore pheromones from her hind end.

Here’s a pic. I couldn’t resist.

Awww… shoot. Sorry. I looked, but I guess I didn’t have my camera at the time. That’s right, no pic of the animal sex here, sorry. Move along…

Anyhow, to make a long story shorter… two months have passed since that fateful day: it was a naughty, brief, broad-daylight, semi-violent, neck-biting, move the tail to the side sorta passionate feline fling — right in the middle of our front yard with 2 other cats (and me, of course) cheering the big stud on.

So about 2 weeks ago we really got the sense that Yoda was about to pop; plus we had counted that ~60 of the 65 days (standard cat pregnancy, as I’m sure you know) had passed. Yoda was semi-frantically looking for a [new] place to have her kittens. She surely didn’t want to have them at the peasant’s house again, as the grim reaper (Valla, the Mom) lives there also, duh! I think she’s the one that milks the cow too. Nice lady, but cold hands. Good milk though. Damn good.

I guess I shouldn’t judge peasant’s behavior. That’s how life is out here in the countryside of Ukraine. Raw and Real. They simply don’t want any more cats around. That’s it. It’s simple. There’s no such thing as spaying or neutering out here – it’s just life. Peasants own a cat to catch the mice; which, incidentally, love to live in the haystacks that are all over the place. See below.

In fact, our local peasants (the ones we are the closest friends with) have a couple of cats to catch the mice and other undesirables. When those cats begin procreating, the only recourse is to eliminate the offspring you don’t want/need. So, they do, and without conscience. No shit. I understand it on an intellectual level, but damn, it seems pretty cruel on an emotional level — to me, that is.

That being said, and as I previously mentioned, Yoda has befriended our family and house. Indeed, while we were in Kiev last week, and my mother in law was at the dacha, Yoda snuck up into our attic and made a comfy little nest on a warm bed of exposed fiberglass insulation (hopefully they won’t mind a bit of glass on their asses).

Have a look… this week, she had the KITTENS! 4 of them!

and another pic, just for fun.

Here’s one of them at about 2 days old:

We took off for Monday-Friday, and returned this past weekend. I took this picture when they were well-fed and sleeping. Yoda was downstairs relaxing. I think the flash woke these guys up Actually, I’m not sure whether they are girls or boys, I haven’t looked.

You can see that their eyes are open, and they are starting to cruising around the make-shift den, thanks to the microwave we just bought.
What are we going to do with them now, I asked my genius wife?

Her response: “I think we will bring them to the market, and have them sold. If not, I guess we’ll keep them for a while. But winter is coming… and there’s no way they’ll make it out here without some help.” I said, “Ugh.”

Nevertheless, they are really cute, and I’m happy that they weren’t drowned by Valla-the-peasant-reaper.

So far, so good. The kittens are growing rapidly!

I’ll keep you posted. Cheers!