Two kids are harder than one

Having two kids to care for is quite a bit more challenging than I thought it would be. With just Aidan, we could double team him as needed and keep him entertained better. Now with Steven, I'm learning that man-to-man coverage and it's a little more difficult.Aidan is taking advantage of the fact that we can't keep as close an eye on him as usual and doing typical Aidan things when we aren't looking like turning on the dishwasher or climbing on the table. We're adjusting to the change and hopefully will improve as the days pass.

Aidan was a little jealous when we first brought Steven home but now is quite content to have a little brother. Today, for example was the first time Aidan could hold him (with a little help, of course) without trying to poke or otherwise "play" with him. When we tried to pick up Steven to feed him, Aidan became upset that he couldn't hold him anymore. Maybe this means they'll become good friends when they're a little older.

***

For those who were looking for Bulgarian Memories, Part V, it's on its way. Just need some time to catch up with things here.

It's a boy!

Steven arrived on Columbus Day. He was 22 in. long and weighed 8 lbs. 5 oz.

Both mom and baby are doing well.

Bulgarian Memories Part IV

(Fourth in a five part series)

We followed Lilyana back to the street. This time I noticed tobacco leaves drying in stalls out on the streets. The leaves were turning brown and shriveling up. A few donkey carts were parked in front of homes. Their rubber tires were the only sign that the twentieth century had made it way to this village. I remember thinking the tires seemed oddly out of place.

As we passed homes, Lilyana told us who lived in each one. "Liubomir lives in this house," she said pointing to one across the street. There was a black cloth tied to the gate. "His wife passed away ten days ago." Then as if to put her death in some kind of context she said, "She was old. It was her time to go."

Ivan followed us with his dog which he gripped tightly by the collar. As we approached the edge of town the dog broke free and headed off to one of the tobacco files. Ivan chased after it.

Lilyana sighed. "He loves that dog so much. It's his only friend."

"Aren't their other children his age for him to play with?" I said.

"No, not here. Not in this village." Lilyana said. "Ivan and I are the youngest people here. Everyone else is over sixty. Most are in their seventies." Lilyana pointed to a house near the tobacco field. "There was an old widow that lived in that house Her name was Ivanka. She was my mother's best friend. She died two years ago. Now the house is empty." She motioned toward the other homes with her hand. "In another ten, fifteen years, most of these homes will be empty."

Years later I would learn that there are hundreds of small villages scattered throughout Southeastern Europe. Most of their population is over sixty and as the old people die, the villages die too.

As if reading my thought Lilyana continued. "The young people leave because there is no work. They go to bigger towns or leave the country entirely. There is no reason for them to stay."

"And why are you and Ivan here?" I asked.

Lilyana told us about an abusive marriage she left. "I had nowhere to go except here," she said.

We were walking up the side of a hill towards rows of grapevines. The vines were scattered and lying on the ground. Lilyana stopped at the first row. "These first two rows belong to our family," she said. She lifted up some leaves and picked large cluster of green grapes. She placed them in a bucket she had brought. I looked under leaves and helped pick some grapes. In a few minutes we had filled the bucket. "Years ago these vines produced lots of grapes," she said. "But now no one cares for them."

She stopped and looked up the hill. "See those tow rows near the top?" she said. Near the top of the hill were two rows of grape vines. Their leaves were dark and plants well cared for. An old couple was caring for the vines. "They get many grapes," she said. "They care for their vines.""Do you like living out here?" I said.

"Most of the time," she said. "I like the quiet." She scanned the fields and called for Ivan. A minute later Ivan and his dog came running toward the hill. "I wish Ivan had someone his age to play with."

"What about school?"

"The nearest school is 15 kilometers away. There is no bus that goes there. I teach Ivan at home." She sighed. "Sometimes I think about going back to my husband but then I remember the abuse. Maybe after my mother dies, I'll take Ivan to Plovdiv or Burgas and start over."

Ivan came running off with his dog. He grabbed my companion's hand and said, "Race you to the top?"

My companion, not understand what he had said looked back at me to translate.

"He wants to race you to the top of the hill," I said.

Ivan and my companion took off to the top. The dog followed closely behind, it's pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. We watched them run to the top. Ivan won and threw his arms in the air. He said something to my companion but that I knew he didn't understand. I was too far away to translate.

I picked up the bucket of grapes and walked with Lilyana to the top of the hill.

"It's beautiful here," I said. "There are no signs of the modern world. No power lines, roads or anything."

"Beautiful but hard," Lilyana said. "Everyone grows their own food to survive. The government pension the old people receive are worthless."

We reached the top of the hill. Ivan ran up to me. "Tell your fiend I want to race him down the hill," he said.

"Ivan says he's going to beat you to the bottom of the hill," I said. My companion looked tired. The run to the top of the hill had worn him out. Ivan tugged at his hand and they broke into a full run down the hill in a cloud of dust.

I looked around. To the south the hills grew into mountains. To the north the hills flattened and turned to planes. On the horizon was something that looked like a thin, sliver ribbon.

"What's that silver line?" I said.

"That's the highway that connects Sofia and Plovdiv," she said. "The one blot on your unspoiled view."

We walked down the hill toward toward Ivan and my companion. An old man drove a donkey cart past the grape vines. He waved as he passed us.

We headed back to the village.

(Coming Monday: Part V: The Conclusion.)

Seven days (or less!) and counting

Just returned from the doctor. If baby number two decides not to come on its own, by this time next week the doctor will induce. We're excited. (What? Were you expecting Part IV of Bulgarian Memories? Be patient. Unless the baby comes tomorrow, it will be up by the end of the week.)

Bulgarian Memories, Part III

Three dozen homes that make up Tsarovo are surrounded by white walls. Think of them as tall, cement privacy fences. The homes have large yards and most of space in the yard is used for gardens. The homes are relatively big and most had red tiled roofs. Most of my time Bulgaria was spent living in the countries two largest cities: Sofia and Plovidiv. I usually lived in one or two bedroom apartments. Though convenient in a lot of ways, I enjoyed the occasional visit to the smaller cities where people lived in something other than communist approved housing. Though many of these small villages lacked the conveniences of larger cities, I had always thought that people in these small villages had the advantage of more personal space and privacy and in some ways more freedom than those in larger cities. It was nice to see places with yards and gardens away from the noises of buses and thousands of people packed into large, concrete buildings.

The house wasn't hard to find. It was the last house on the street. Off to one side were rolling hills planted with tobacco and grapes. We rang the brass bell attached to the gate and waited. A moment later a middle aged woman appeared.

"You're here!" she exclaimed. "I'm glad you've come."

"Lilyana?" I said. From her reaction I assumed we had the right house but wanted to be sure. It was nice to meet someone who was happy to see us.

"Yes, yes! Please come in," she said. She opened the gate and let us into the yard. "Come, let me introduce you to my family."

We followed her down a wide path between the house and a cement wall. Overhanging the path were grape vines. Large clusters of green grapes hung from the vines. They looked sweet and juicy. Mixed in with the grapes were squash. Instead of planting them on the ground and letting their vines spread, the tendrils of these squash plants climbed up the lattice amid the grape vines. Squash plants hung down with the grapes. I had never seen anything like this.

I must have been staring at the plants with a funny look on my face because Lilyana asked if something was wrong.

"No, nothing's wrong," I said. "I've never seen squash growing amid grapes before. Back home the squash spreads out along the ground."

"We plant them this way to help conserve space," she said. "There isn't room to let things spread out all over the ground."

The path led to a large back yard maybe a quarter of acre big. There was a small open space with grass. An old wooden table and chairs were outside. The rest of the yard was converted into a garden and from what I could see there was mostly tomatoes, cucumbers, and cabbage. Each row was separated by small stone paths. Several chickens were clucking and walking between the rows looking for bugs.

An old woman with white fizzy hair emerged from the back door. Her back was hunched and she hobbled in the direction of the garden. She called out and shook a pail of grain she carried. The chickens responding to either the sound of her voice of the sound of the grain in the bucket ran toward her, clucking loudly. The woman threw the grain in wide arcs and the chickens spread out to gobble it up.

The old woman was introduced to us as Lilyana's mother. Her name was Mila and she seemed glad to see us.

"Have you seen Ivan?" Lilyana asked.

"Ivan? He's out in the field playing with the dog," the woman said. "He should be back soon."

"I told him not to leave. He knew we were having guests," Lilyana said. She excused herself and walked out a back gate to find him. Each call for her son grew fainter and fainter.

Mila told us to sit in one of the wooden chairs next to the table. She sat next to us and asked us about home and our families and what we thought of Bulgaria. We answered her questions and tried to find out as much about her as we could. As it turned out Mila was in her late 80s and had been born and raised in this Tsarovo. Her husband, who had died ten years previously, was also born and raised here. She told us that she rarely left the village now that she was older. "I used to travel to the city but not anymore. This is my home," she said. "I have lived here and I will die here."

A dog came running through the back gate, followed by a young boy. The dog was a mutt, and looked to be a cross between at least five different breeds. It ran up to us and tried to climb on our laps and lick our faces.

"Ivan," Mila said. "Control your dog!"

Ivan called to the dog and it ran back to him then darted around the garden chasing the chickens. The chicken ran along the narrow paths of the garden. One chick fluttered in the air a foot or so off the ground then crashed headlong into the wall, momentarily stunning it.

"Ivan!"

Ivan grabbed the dog by the caller and chained him to a post near the table. The dog strained at the chain when a chicken walked by. Eventually it lay underneath the table and rested its head on its paws.

Ivan seemed excited to see us. He told us how he and the dog were playing down by the river. "I've taught him to fetch anything I throw," he said proudly, "even small rocks." As if to illustrate his point, he picked up a small stone from the garden. The dog perked up when he saw Ivan pick up the rock. Mila made a ticking sound with her tongue -- the sound of general displeasure -- and Ivan set the rock down.

Lilyana came through the back gate. There were beads of sweat on her forehead as if she had been walking quickly to stay with Ivan and his dog.

"I see you've met Ivan," she said.

"He has a lot of energy," I said. "I have a brother about his age. He runs around just like Ivan."

"You have a brother?" said Ivan, "Maybe he can come and play with me." There was an excitement at the prospect of having a playmate I found odd. But before I could say anything to Ivan Lilyana was unhooking the dog from it's chain.

"Since this is your first time in our village," she said. "You must let me show you around."

The D is for Loser

On the way to work this morning, I was listening to a sports radio station when it was announced that the Detroit Tigers fired manager Alan Trammell. The comments from the sport radio hosts went something like this.

Host #1: Now that Detroit needs a new manager, do you think someone like Lou Piniella will take the job.

Host #2: I don't think anyone's that desperate for a job.

Host #1: Come one, what's there not to love about the Tigers. They've been tearing it up for years now.

Host #2: You've got a point. They could give any AAA level team a run for their money.

I'm starting to think Detroit should replace the fancy D on their caps and replace it with a big L.

~sighs~

(For those who were looking forward to Part III of Bulgarian Memories, it will be posted tomorrow. I had to vent while I had a minute.)

Bulgarian Memories, Part II

Read Part I.

You won't find Tsarovo on even the most detailed maps of Bulgaria. I remember being surprised at this fact when I retuned to the states. My grandfather had purchased a very large and meticulous map of the country for me upon my return and one evening I was pointing out various cities I have visited or lived in to my family. When I started telling this story I looked all over the map for Tsarovo. I traced road that the bus took the village. Where the village should have been, there was nothing.

About an hour after leaving the bus depot, the bus left the main highway and drove several miles down a narrow dirt road. To the side of the roads were fields of tobacco. The plants were tall and the leaves, dark green and broad. A few field workers stood near the fence examining the leaves of one plant. The looked up as the bus passed.

At the bottom of some rolling hills, the bus stopped. The doors hissed open and the old women gathered up their bags and hobbled off the bus. I approached the driver and asked when the next bus would head back to Plovdiv.

"Four o'clock," he said. "If you miss that, you'll have to spend the night here."

I stepped off the bus and found myself at the foot of some rolling hills. There were three empty buildings at the end of the road. There were faded signs above the doorways and in the widows. At one time one of the buildings had been a store. Another a laundry service. They were probably stores that were open during the communist reign to keep people employed. Once the communist government was toppled, the stores shut down. In the smaller towns there were lots of empty buildings like this.

But empty buildings weren't what I had expected to find. I had expected to see homes and people in the streets. Instead there were three empty buildings at the foot of some hills.

"Is this Tsarovo?" my companion said.

I pulled the directions from my pocket that I had written down a few days before. The directions were vague. It said simply to walk down the main road from the bus stop to the village. I looked around and noticed most of the old women from the bus were waking past the buildings, up a road that weaved it's way through the hills.

"I think Tsarovo is up that road," I said.

We caught up to the old woman with the bag of sticks on the road.

"Excuse me," I said. "Will this road take us to Tsarovo?"

The woman stopped and set down her bag. "What business do you have there?" she said.

"We're here to see friends," I said.

The woman looked us up and down. Her green eyes were full of suspicion and mistrust. "Who are your friends?" she asked.

"Would you like help with your bag?" I offered. "I can carry it to the village for you." I wanted to change the subject. Often our presence would cause tension between those we were visiting and their neighbors. Besides, I had no doubt after today everyone in the village would know whom we had come to see.

The old woman pulled the bag close to her. "I can carry my own bag," she said.

"Tsarovo," I said. "It's up this road, right?"

"Yes," the woman said. "Up the road."

Up the road ended being a two mile walk. By the time we arrived our shoes were covered with dust. We were hot and tired. We took bottles of water from our bags and took a long drink and looked at the village. Tsarovo was nothing more than a collection of three dozen homes, grouped together on the crest of a hill. It was surrounded by other hills. The other hills were all farmland, a patchwork of greens and yellows.What surprised me most about the town however was not it's size, but the streets. The roads were littered with horse and donkey manure. Most of it was dried by the sun but there were a few fresh piles lying around.

"Do you hear that?" I said.

My companion looked around. "Hear what?"

"Listen," I said.

He stood and cocked his head to one side. "I don't hear anything," he said.

"Exactly. There's nothing to hear. There's no cars or radios. Nothing. When was the last time you were in a place this quiet? Look at the manure all over the road. Do you see any tire tracks smashing it down. Do you see any power lines sending electricity to the homes? I don't think the people here have electric power or cars."

"Who do lives a place like this?" my companion said.

I pulled the directions out of my pocket trying to orient myself. "Let's find out," I said.

I stepped over a fresh pile of donkey manure and turned down the first street.

Bulgarian Memories, Part I

It began with an early morning bus ride.

I was still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and eating banitsa -- a cheese filled pastry-- and waiting for the bus. At that hour, there were few people at the bus station. Of the dozen or so people in the station, most of them were old women with hunched backs. They all carried bags. Some bags were filled with food. Others with clothes. One woman with grey hair and green eyes had a bag full of sticks. Most of them eyed my companion and I with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

We were dressed in the standard summer attire: short sleeve white shirts and ties. I hope it is not necessary to state that we stood out. I checked my watch then approached the ticket window to make sure I had understood the ticket lady correctly when I had purchased the tickets.

"Seven o'clock. That's when the bus comes, right?" I asked the middle aged lady behind the counter.

She was puffing on a cigarette and reading a celebrity magazine. A picture of Princess Diana graced the cover. "It will come when it comes," she said not looking up from her magazine.

"Is there a bus later this afternoon?"

The woman looked up from her magazine. "There is only one bus a day to your city," she said. "When it comes get on it." Then she returned her attention back to the magazine.

I thanked the lady and walked over to the magazine stand, and tried to decipher the newspaper headlines. By this time I had lived in Bulgaria 20 months. I spoke Bulgarian well but the newspapers were tricky to read. Their headlines used a lot of slang and tricky word conjugations that I found hard to understand. But today's headline I understood all to well. A car bomb had exploded in Sofia. The subhead line said police speculated it was part of the latest, ongoing mafia war.

The old man selling the newspapers asked if I wanted to buy a paper. I nodded my head indicating no. The nodding and the shaking had been one of the more difficult parts of Bulgarian culture to master because it's the opposite from the rest of the world. Nodding your head means no. Shaking it means yes. Bulgarians told us that this custom was from the time of the Turkish occupation. Not fond of Christians, the Turks would put the point of the sword under the chin of a Bulgarians and ask if they were Christians. To nod meant death so as the story went, Bulgarians began shaking their head to indicate yes. This helped them avoid the point of the sword while at the same time pacifying their Turkish occupiers.

"If you want to read it, then buy it," he man selling newspapers said. He pulled the stack of papers toward him.

I walked back to my companion.

"Anything in the news?" he said.

"No. Nothing."

A red bus spewing plumes of black diesel smoke pulled up. The old women in the station picked up their bags and hobbled on, pausing only to hand the driver their tickets. We waited until everyone else had boarded. We boarded the bus and handed the driver our tickets. Only the old ladies who were at the station were on the bus. There were plenty of empty seats. We were encouraged to sit next to people and talk to them but the looks of those in the bus still looked at us with suspicion. Wordlessly we found seats near the back, across the aisle from the old lady with a bag of sticks.

The doors of the bus closed and the bus left the station in a plume of black exhaust.

The journey to a Tsarovo, small village in the middle of the Rhodope mountains, was about to begin.

Things That Would Only Bother Me

I was watching the local news the other day about an arrest in murder that happened 13 years ago. I like these stories as I'm curious as to what the big break was that linked the murderer to his victim. (In this case it was a scuff of paint on the victim's boot matched the paint of a suspect's car.) This news report (sorry no link to story available) included an interview the former victim's wife. It identified her as Jennifer Ruff -- the victim's widow. I then flipped to a different news channel where they ran their take on the same story. I decided to watch this broadcast simply to see if they had any new information that the first station didn't. Everything in this broadcast was pretty much the same as the first. Same background on the murder, same quotes by the same police officers, and the same mug shot of the suspect. The only thing that was different was the way the portrayed the victim's former wife. She was identified by her new married name, Jennifer Campbell (some media referred to her as Jennifer Ruff-Campbell), and mentioned that she had remarried, and had other children through her new marriage.

And though not a pivotal part of the story, I wondered why the first newscast hadn't chosen to mention the fact that the victim's former wife had remarried or even identified her by her new name. I can't really think of a reason unless the reporter was really sloppy or the station was trying build up the sympathetic image of a widow who for over 13 years had been wondering who killed her husband.

It's a small thing (something only I would have noticed) but something I can't get out my head. And I can't come up with a good reason they'd leave it out.

Pity the Detroit Tigers (Again)

After a fairly strong start to their season, the Detroit Tigers have slid hard in September. They've lost six in a row, including three to the lowly Kansas City Royals, and assured themselves yet another losing season. I didn't expect them to have a playoff worthy team this season but I did think they'd finally break the .500 mark.

Not this year.

Maybe never.

Maybe it's time I start rooting for the Inidans.