Erik’s Blog

Last Friday, August 6, my wife and I headed down to Extremadura to see our daughter, Nora, who had been down there the entire previous week with her grandparents and great-grandfather. It was a little disappointing not to be able to present her to our friends down there, as most of them had already seen her earlier in the week. She clearly recognized us (whew!), but was pretty unenthusiastic about it. We were immediately merged into her ordered hierarchy of people she likes to be with:

1. Mommy (Marga)
2. Abuelo (her grandfather, Juan)
3. Abuela (her grandmother, Marce)
4. Daddy (Erik)
5. …everybody else…
6. Bisabuelo (her great-grandfather, Ramón)

She spends a good portion of her time in her great-grandfather’s house prohibiting him from touching things. If he puts his hand on a chair or table or toy or glass, even if the object is across the room from her, she will race over (still holding someone’s hand) shouting, “No no no no no!!” and remove his hand from the object in his home that he had the nerve to touch. It’s actually pretty cute, and I think she understands that it’s a bit of a game. He certainly does.
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On June 12, 2010, shortly before the United States faced off against England in their first World Cup match of the second decade of the third millennium, we had a party to celebrate the ninetieth birthday of my third grandfather. It was a lovely meal with good friends and family followed by a balloon-popping event, some gifts, and cake. A good time was had by all, even if Nora did manage to receive more gifts than the birthday boy.
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I have three grandfathers. There are my parents’ fathers, of course, but there’s also my wife’s maternal grandfather, who I love like my own. One of the most unforgettable moments of my wedding day was when he took me aside and said, “To you, from now on, my name is no longer Ramón. It’s Abuelo.” I get choked up just thinking about it.

During our recent summer vacation to his house in Extremadura, I came to understand – if you can call it that – two strange quirks that he has.
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The following is a document written by my father, Paul Rasmussen, about his recent trip to visit us in May 2010.

We just returned from our seventh vacation in Spain. Some of them, like Erik and Marga’s wedding, or Nora’s baptism, were centered on events. One of them – Extremadura in August – was centered on learning the Spanish vacation lifestyle. Sometimes Betsy and I spent a few days in Madrid or Barcelona along the way, working on our Spanish, and on our ability to enjoy Spain without a guide. This time, however, we traveled directly to Colindres to visit our son and his family on May 11 and 12, and directly home on May 21. More than any other trip, this was purely a vacation. Well, there was the occasion of my birthday on May 19, but I’ll get to that later. (more…)

My father has sent me some photos he took during his recent visit. They provide a pretty good snapshot of our daily routines, from the playground to the local grocery store, to evening bath time. It seems amazing to me that just ten days ago we had Nora in her winter coat and today she’s sweating in the lightest white linen suit. (more…)

Yesterday was my father’s 61st birthday. Ever since we celebrated his sixtieth birthday last May by eating a mariscada at a local restaurant, he has been planning on/hoping for/not-so-subtly requesting a repeat celebration this year. A mariscada is a platter of marisco, which generally translates to “seafood” in English, but usually specifically refers only to shellfish. The region of Galicia is very famous for its marisco, but the mariscada we had in Vigo was a big let down after that of our local restaurant, El Guti, which is where we dined last night. The restaurant is owned by a friend of ours, José Luis. Now, on to the photos… (more…)

Last Friday, March 19th, was Father’s Day in Spain. My wife asked me for a recent photograph of Nora for a gift for me. I had no idea what it was going to be, but I printed a crop of her head from my current favorite photo. That night, when she got back from daycare, she brought with her a very pleasant surprise.
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On Friday, March 19, 2010, my beloved grandfather passed away, the day before his only great-granddaughter, Nora, was scheduled to fly, with her mother and me, to visit him. What saddens me most is the unfortunate circumstance that had given us hope for an encounter between my grandfather and Nora. His mind was sharp until the very end, but his hearing made communication difficult. His deterioration was slow, as he never really had any illnesses, and he was a good sport until the end. He was the favorite of all his nurses at the nursing home because he would nod in agreement to anything suggested, partly because of his poor hearing and partly because he was just such an agreeable person. I understand this completely because much of my initial charm to my Spanish family was based on my smiling and nodding and going along with whatever they suggested, when a lot of the time I had no idea what was being suggested.
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Last weekend I was all alone. Marga and Nora went to visit Marga’s parents in her hometown. While they were there, they went to some sort of festival where migas were served. Migas is a dish of fried bread crumbs, normally with some fried garlic, peppers or bacon mixed in. It’s delicious! Apparently Nora enjoyed some migas as well. She also tried some rosquillas, which are like Spanish doughnuts. What follows are some pictures my sister-in-law sent me of Nora’s activities over the weekend.
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Well, Nora, yesterday was your last cumplemes that we’re going to celebrate. From now on, it’s just once a year. We weren’t going to do much of a party this time, but in the morning your Aunt Belén called and informed me that she was bringing your grandmother and great-grandfather to see you for your 11 month birthday…and that they expected there to be hamburgers!
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