Rambling Josh

John Boy Walton once said, “The mountains don’t need us, but we need them.” John Boy was a smart lad, a bit serious and prone to being overcome with emotion, but there’s worse ways to be. He was curious about the people and the world near and far to him, cared deeply for his family, and possessed a moral compass for truth and justice that was steadfast and unwavering.

“Passionate” would be a good word to describe John Boy, if one were looking for a word. Perhaps you are fortunate enough to have a John Boy, or two, in your life? Perhaps you are a John Boy? Maybe not in full, but in part. Bibs and bare feet are not for everyone. Apparently, Ike Godsey was not a stickler for the “No Shoes, No Service” policy in his store.

It so happens that I am fortunate enough, as my wife and my daughter are passionate people in possession of strong moral compasses. That is not to say that my son and I are immoral dastardly gangsters, rather that our compasses possess a few air bubbles that perpetually bump the needle about in a laissez-faire manner.

These differences in temperament are not chosen like a hairdo from a magazine (I’ll never make that mistake again), rather they are largely just the hand we are genetically dealt. A double scoop of nature with a sprinkle of nurture that can sometimes give those closest to us intermittent bouts of brain freeze.

Brain freeze, though painful, passes relatively quickly, and we always dig back in for more. Not because we love the brain freeze, but because we love the double scoop with sprinkles. So it goes.

Being around people that are passionate about things can sometimes nudge us to ponder that perhaps we should be a bit more passionate about things, that maybe we should care a little more about things. What things? Things that matter to those that matter to us seems like a good place to start. Beyond that? I guess one must just dabble a bit in life and see what raises their passion flag above the walls of their inner citadel.

Viktor Frankl once said, “Self-transcendence is the essence of existence.” Self-transcendence…moving above and beyond ourselves…the acquisition of more sprinkles for our double scoop.

John Boy Walton and Viktor Frankl…strange bedfellows, but their words were on my mind while I rambled about the Black Hills this past week, hoofing it up snow covered hills to see what I could see. Mostly what I saw was more snow-covered hills, but somehow coffee and jerky always taste better while sitting on a stump on top of hill. Half the jerky anyway, our dog talked me out of the other half.

The Black Hills don’t need me, but I need them. We all need something, or someone, to challenge us now and then. We need someone to point out that some of those sprinkles on our double scoop aren’t actually sprinkles (it’s amazing the places mice can get into).

Goodnight John Boy.

About a week before Christmas, I was wrapping one of the many presents I showered upon my wife in an attempt to offset my refusal to watch Hallmark movies with her, when I heard a knock at our front door. Nobody I know, or generally care to talk to, ever knocks on the front door, that’s what the back door is for.

The silly season has passed, so I didn’t suspect it to be a politician peddling promises, and it’s too cold out for the nice lads with the Latter-Day Saints to be out and about evangelizing in their white short-sleeve dress shirts.

Come to think of it, those nice lads still owe me a visit. A few years ago, they knocked on our front door and asked if they could educate me about their beliefs, but I had a dentist appointment to get to so I said, “Leave me your bible and I’ll study up for the next time you come around.” They awkwardly shifted around looking at each other for a few seconds, and then hesitantly handed over their bible.

Who could it be knocking on our front door at this hour (5:07PM)? The Christmas tree is hogging my vantage point in the front window where I generally lurk to peer out and determine whether to open the door or not. Throwing caution to the wind, I opened the door.

There stood a young boy, about 12-years-old, holding a plate of festively decorated homemade Christmas cookies in various quasi-discernable shapes. Festively decorated in the manner that a 12-year-old boy supplied with a big bowl of icing and a surplus of sprinkles would see fit. Not 4-H Burke County Fair blue-ribbon work…perhaps a participation trophy. So it goes.

We stood and looked at each other for a bit, me attempting to process what was going on, he shyly gathering himself to tell me. “I’m selling Christmas cookies to raise money to buy a snowboard…they’re kind of expensive.” I inquired as to the price of his creations, “$15 dollars for one plate or $25 for two.” he said, while motioning towards the second plate of cookies sitting on the steps behind him.

So as not to deny any of my neighbors a plate of cookies, and to maybe enable him to make five more bucks and experience the joy of enduring his chosen means of entrepreneurship for another cold call, I handed him $15. Knowing full well that I had no intentions of eating the cookies.

You ever watched kids make Christmas cookies with icing and sprinkles? They are an unsanitary lot, especially during cold season, and no matter where they have been or what they have touched, I’ve never known of a 12-year-old boy that willingly washed their hands. That, and the fact that his black hoody was festooned with the fluttery tell-tale signs of a family pet that he liked to pet.

Why would I buy cookies that I don’t intend to eat? For one, it’s Christmas. Secondly, to help a motivated young man achieve his goal, and thirdly, peace of mind.

How would I feel if a few days later I read a newspaper report about a kid, disgruntled with poor Christmas cookie sales, holding up a liquor store to buy a snowboard? “The perpetrator brandished what appeared to be a sugar cookie shaped as a handgun, or a misshapen reindeer (reports vary), and angrily demanded all the cash, a scratch-off lottery ticket, and a fistful of jerky. Investigators followed a trail of festive sprinkles to a local snowboard shop where the perpetrator was apprehended without incident.”

Lastly, I bought cookies I never intended to eat for insurance. A few years down the road, when that pleasant cookie peddling 12-year-old is an angstful teenager marauding the neighborhood with his gang of defrocked Cub Scouts and altar boys looking to slash tires and crack the skulls of garden gnomes, he might say, “Skip that house fellas, old man Ellis bought Christmas cookies from me once.”

May your New Year be shiny and bright with copious fistfuls of festive sprinkles.

When I saw the picture of my Aunt Susie and my first-grade teacher Mrs. McEvers on the front page of the December 4th edition of the Burke County Tribune under the title, “Dixon Celebrates 40 Years in Salon Business”, my first thought was, “No way! 40-years ago wasn’t that long ago.” But, alas, I crunched the numbers, and it all added up.

Susie wasn’t very old when I was born, and coincidentally, neither was I. In genealogical and/or ancestral terms, she is not my Great-Aunt, but she is a great Aunt, and a kind, caring, selfless pillar of the community of Lignite and Burke County.

When I was a wee lad, Susie would sometimes babysit my brother Jarvis and myself while our parents piously attended Reverand Laurie Chrest’s bible study group at The 109 Church. I always knew when Susie was going to be our sitter, there would be a pre-payment of condolences in the form of TJ Swann in the fridge to ease the pain that was my brother and I.

“Little Creeps” as Susie mostly lovingly, and always rightfully, referred to us knuckleheads. I loved when she was in charge for the night, because if she was our sitter there was a good chance that some of the Burke Central High School class of 1983 would be called in for entertainment and reinforcements…and I would get to watch Saturday Night Live. “Back when it was funny.” As we of a certain age like to profess.

We loved being her Little Creeps and diligently strove to live up to the moniker. Oftentimes us Little Creeps would be abandoned at the farm with Susie in charge while the adults did adult stuff somewhere away from the farm. “Abandoned” might be a bit strong, we loved nothing more than going to the farm. Everyone should be so lucky as to have a grandparent’s “farm” in their young lives. A place where rules are bent and often broken.

A place where a bottomless tin of Strawberry Nesquik is in perpetual supply, and when Susie is in charge, you get a bendy or swirly straw to blow bubbles in it until it covers the kitchen table.

A place where the long rubber hose from big red fire extinguisher filled with fine white powder can be stuffed into the front of your little brothers ToughSkins jeans and sprayed until the fine white powder shoots out of the bottom of both of his pant legs…when Susie is in charge.

She isn’t to blame. You turn your back to clean up a kitchen table hemorrhaging Strawberry Nesquik and Little Creeps will do what Little Creeps will do. So it goes.

She had been annoyed with us often, like when we ate her cherry flavored lip gloss or gave her dolls crew-cuts, but the fire extinguisher incident may be the only time I remember her actually being mad at us Little Creeps. Perhaps that’s why she was instrumental in helping me to maintain my glorious mullet, or why she eagerly complied with my ill-fated request to have the New York Yankees symbol shaved into the side of my head? Little Creep payback.

I’m quite proud of my Aunt Susie…a great aunt indeed.

I have always thought it interesting how different days of the week possess a distinct “feel,” a personality of sorts. I suppose this feeling attributed to a specific day of the week is entirely a social construct dependent upon how that day is, or was, predominately spent in the social construction zone of your self-construction.

Many moons ago, each day was most likely just a period of light between the darkness comprised of a fairly short “To Do” list of finding food and not becoming food. Two things to do each and every day. Well…three things…need to make new humans to replace the ones that failed at task two. Turns out humans are pretty good at making new humans and quickly outpaced the sabretooth tigers nefarious plans for our populations demise. So it goes.

Once those three tasks were checked off you were free to spend the rest of the day doing as you please: crafting (sharpening sticks and stones), fashion design (tiger print…never wear polar bear after Labor Day), Netflix (cloud and star gazing…more tigers). Ah…the good ol’ days.

“The Social Construction of Days and the Self” sounds like a snoozer of a title you might see on the cover of a book lingering forlorn and forgotten at the bottom of the bargain bin at a used bookstore. Used books that never got used. Don’t blame it on the book, it’s the author that put the words in it that failed to compel readers to read it.

The singer/songwriter John Prine was quite adept at putting compelling words to our daily tasks of living, “You say you drive around the town till you just get bored, and then you change your mind, for something else to do, and your heart gets bored with your mind and it changes you.”

“Your heart gets bored with your mind and it changes you.” Sometimes we think we know what we need or want, our mind contrives all sorts of reasons for this and for that, and our heart goes along for the ride…for a while. It goes along quietly at the beginning, but gradually grows more insistent about the direction it would really like to go. An insistence, like that book at the bottom of the bargain bin, we can choose to ignore.

Don’t blame the heart, it’s the owner of the vessel that continues in an uncompelling direction. Sometimes willfully and knowingly and sometimes begrudgingly…without choice. Choice. As Viktor Frankl once said, “Everything can be taken from us but one thing, the last of the human freedoms, to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

In our heart, in theory, we most likely know this, in our mind, and possibly in reality, we may not currently have an option for another route so we keep “driving around the town” despite the boredom our heart is experiencing. Maybe someday? Someday when…

To lean on the lyrics of Mr. Prine one more time, sometimes “Saturday made Sunday feel like it would never come” and other times it “felt just like Sunday on Saturday afternoon.”

What do the days of your week feel like?

On November 22, 1986, my 14-year-old self watched a 20-year-old Mike Tyson become the youngest heavy-weight boxing champion ever when he knocked out Trevor Berbick. On November 15, 2024, my 52-year-old self watched a 58-year-old Mike Tyson get beat by 27-year-old Jake Paul in a unanimous decision. A lot of life has happened in the 38 years between that day and this.

What did the 70,000 people that filled AT&T Stadium and the 120 million that tuned in (or attempted to tune in) via Netflix want? What did I want? Did I want to be 14 again? Did I want Iron Mike to be 20 again? Maybe I just wanted some sort of proof that age is just a number, and that even in our 50s we possess the power to summon forth our younger selves if we so desire?

The proof in the pudding was undeniable, and like a bowl of lukewarm tapioca it was neither savory nor satisfying. Despite whatever it was that each of us wanted, reality, stiff-legged and lumbering, was what we got. So it goes. I suppose if we were never to experience anything we found unsavory or unsatisfying we wouldn’t enjoy that which we do find savory and satisfying to the same degree.

I don’t blame Iron Mike for the proof he revealed in this serving of tepid tapioca, for as Teddy Roosevelt once said, “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood.”

Sometime around 1980, my dad thought it was a good idea to get my brother and I boxing gloves. Perhaps his reasoning was that since we fought all the time, we may as well settle our never-ending disputes in a sporting manner? Whatever the reason, those gloves inevitably served to fuel more fights than they ever sportingly settled. I remember that they were black with a white “Rocky Marciano” signature across the palm, and I remember feeling “tough” just by virtue of slipping them onto my hands.

There’s a space between feeling tough and being tough that some bombastically fill with talk, and some, quietly fill with putting their fist in your talker. Of course, most professional fighters do both, while most of us that have chosen a less bruising vocation, recognize the pain in that gap as largely avoidable and undesirable and are quite happy to just feel tough while we quietly shadow box.

As it turns out, that shadow boxing opponent can prove to be a salty foe…relentlessly present, knows all our so-called moves, takes advantage of each and every weakness, never falls for a feint…as psychologist Carl Jung said of the “shadow self”, “I must also have a dark side if I am to be whole.” The dark side…earlobe deep in tepid tapioca.

As I watched the fight unfold, as my enthusiastic prefight prediction of Iron Mike laying Jake Paul low 48-seconds into the first round shuffled by, as giddiness took an uppercut from reality amidst the ever-present commentary not-so-subtly hinting that 58-years-old was old…too old…I began to hope that at the very least, both fighters would leave the squared circle none the worse for wear. Health and humility intact.

I am reminded of what is often said of events such as this, “It is better to have tried and failed than to have never tried at all.” I am also reminded of something Kurt Vonnegut once said, “We are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you any different.”

Thanks for trying Iron Mike…thanks for farting around.

Do you remember when you were a kid and your parents were painting the garage or the house or most anything, and the absolute best way that you could “help” was to disappear until they were done? Delusionally, you would ask if you could help, or even more delusionally, your parents would suggest that you help.

Pick your poison, both delusions are going to be very short lived, and both will end with you pedaling your banana bike (with the ape hanger handlebars) down the driveway. Pedaling away from the paint tray you stepped in, the paint roller you dropped in the dirt, the general tedium of being an adult. Pedaling to where? During a painting project…anywhere. Unbridled freedom until the final coat dries.

Of course, you will come home a time or two (kids are needy) and find yourself mildly dismayed that your mother doesn’t drop everything, shimmy down the ladder, and fix you a bologna sandwich just the way you like it. Thin slathering of mayo…cut diagonal. What kind of degenerate wants their sandwich cut any other way?

Mildly dismayed until you realize that while they are painting, they don’t care what you eat. You come to this glorious conclusion when the terse response to your whiney, “Mooommm I’mmm huuungry” is, “Eat something. I’m busy.” With the same twinkle in your eye that you had when you pedaled away from painting, you saunter into the kitchen and eat a lot of somethings.

Everything except those fancy little square cubes wrapped in gold foil you snuck out of the cupboard last week. “Bouillon” sounds exotic, but they were almost as bad as those Circus Peanuts grandma tried to pawn off as candy…almost.

So, there you are, King of the Kitchen, a Keebler Fudge Stripe dangling off each finger. You smugly show your little brother the middle cookie when he asks if he can have one. He of course threatens to tell mom (that’s what little brothers do), but you know for a fact that she’s precariously perched on the ladder step that says, “NOT A STEP” and in no mood to hear little brothers whine about cookies and fingers, so you waggle the middle cookie with impunity.

My wife had me pick up a bucket of paint the other day so she could paint the shed and the garage. Like a good husband, I delivered the bucket of paint as requested, and the following morning I looked out to see her in her painting clothes meticulously applying a coat of “Crisp Linen” to the shed. It was a lovely fall day for a bike ride, but first I had to stop by the hardware store to pick up some hardware store type stuff.

I sauntered out to the shed to ask my wife if she needed anything from the hardware store, and she said, “If you are going to help me paint, pick up another paint roller.”

I remember when I was a kid, and the absolute best way I could help paint was to disappear until the painting was done. Sometimes I miss being a kid. It was a lovely fall day for painting. So it goes.

I looked up from my guitar as I was singing “Night Rider’s Lament” to see tears streaming down Don’s face. Don is in his 80s, residing in a hospice care home until Alzheimer’s disease, which has already taken much of who he was, takes him bodily. So it goes.

Music is almost all that is left of this world that puts Don at ease, so as a hospice volunteer, I have been asked to come and play and sing “some old country songs” for him every few weeks. Those old country songs that were new back when he first heard them. Back when he was in the military, back when he got married, back when he and his wife were working to raise a family. Back when his life was full of life.

The nurse asked Don why he was crying, and he softly said, “I remember that song.” In the few times I have visited Don, that’s the only time I’ve heard him speak, and what little he said, said so very much.

Night Rider’s Lament was written by Michael Burton and was first released by Jerry Jeff Walker in 1975. Since then, it has been performed by numerous artists, as tends to happen to a song that speaks a certain language in a certain way that touches so many people. Like Don.

This semester I started taking one of my classes on regular visits to a local nursing home to engage with the residents and for the residents to engage with the students. They all sit in a big circle and talk about life. Life that has passed, life as it is, and life that has yet to come.

Young and old, sharing a bit of time, sharing a bit of themselves for the benefit of one another. The benefits of these visits run both ways, the residents getting the opportunity to tell the students who and what they used to be, and the students getting the opportunity to tell the residents who and what they want to be. Somewhere in the middle, they both talk of who and what they are.

A common question the students have for the residents is, “What advice do you have for someone my age?” The common response from the residents, most of whom are wheelchair bound, is, “Do things while you are able.” Except for Sandra, she says, “Never get married.”

One of the residents, who was about to turn 90, disagreed with Sandra, saying, “My husband was a hunk, we had a lot of good times.” One of the students asked her what she planned on doing for her 90th birthday? She shrugged and matter-of-factly said, “Crawl out my window and go have a beer.”

We all have a variety of biases that shade the way we see the world and the people we share this world with. These interactions between young and old have seemed to lift some of those shades and allow both sides to see each other in a better light.

“One night while I was out a ridin’

The graveyard shift midnight ‘til dawn

The moon was bright as a readin’ light

For a letter from an old friend back home”

September 24th, 1994 doesn’t seem that long ago. In comparison, it seems much nearer than the 30-years Marty McFly traversed from 1985 back to 1955 in “Back to the Future”. What would our kids find if Emmett “Doc” Brown let them fire up the flux capacitor and take his DeLorean for a time defying cruise to Aberdeen, South Dakota, to take a gander at their future parents on that September day in 1994?

They would most likely find their mother studiously holed-up in a quiet corner of the basement in the Williams Library on the Northern State University campus striving to attain nothing short of A’s in all of her coursework.

They would most assuredly find their father groggily pulling the red sheet from his futon to fashion a toga in preparation for the homecoming football game and the festivities that tend to follow homecoming football games. As my college roommate said, “We went to a party and a football game broke out.” So it goes.

If those meddling kids of ours tailed us long enough, they would find that both their future parents’ paths would eventually lead to The Zoo Bar that evening. The Zoo was where the paths of most college kids led for refreshments, dancing, and general shenanigans on those special occasions when refreshments, dancing, and general shenanigans were called for. Special occasions such as homecoming, and most any Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday of most any week.

Wednesday was “Mug Night” at The Zoo, where a thrifty college student could buy a 32oz plastic keepsake mug emblazoned with “The Zoo” for $5.00 that, much to the chagrin of their liver, could be refilled for $1.00 until their dollars or their frontal lobe gave out.

On that September night in question, our kids would have seen their future parents, separated by an undulating sea of college students, laughing and chatting with their perspective groups of friends. Eventually, they would see their future parents chatting with each other, eventually dancing, and eventually walking out of The Zoo into the Aberdeen night, hand-in-hand, just as they would find them once they ran wild-eyed back to Doc Brown’s DeLorean, frantically fired up the flux capacitor, and dashed back to 2024.

What those kids wouldn’t know, if that were the only day in the recesses of the past that they dare venture to, is that that September night wasn’t the first time their future parents had met. They wouldn’t know that their future dad had first noticed their future mom a few years prior to that night, but assumed she was too smart for a guy like him (a valid assumption).

They wouldn’t know that for a semester their future mom and dad sat at the same lab table in Invertebrate Zoology where their future dad faired better at making their future mom laugh than he faired on the exams. They wouldn’t know that their future mom agreed to meet their future dad at her beloved library and tutor him in algebra, because he honestly needed tutoring in algebra, and she honestly thought he was cute…and desperately needed help with algebra.

They wouldn’t know that the majority of those tutoring sessions in the library were spent talking about what their future parents wanted in life. Who they wanted to be, what they wanted to do, the places they wanted to go…all the stuff that young people with more years in front of them than behind tend to talk about.

They wouldn’t know that all of that led up to what they witnessed on September 24th, 1994, and that what their future parents wanted from life, back when they had more years in front of them than behind, is what their parents have now. Where would you go in Doc Brown’s DeLorean? Or as Doc put it, “Not where, when?”

A few weeks ago, we made the 400-mile jaunt from Rapid City to upstate North Dakota to be a part of my brother Gabe’s 40th birthday celebration. There were no pony rides or bouncy houses, but there were 18-holes of golf and plenty of clowns around the backyard firepit.

Our son, Jackson, wanted to golf and carry-on into the wee hours with his uncle, so we weren’t able to depart Rapid City until about 7:00pm (our time…as it is often referred to by those in our Central Time Zone destination) as Jackson had to work later than anticipated. He’s a UPS driver, and we can’t have people without their essentially unessential stuff delivered in a timely fashion.

A departure of 7:00pm our time (8:00pm their time) made for a 2:00am our time (3:00am their time) arrival, which amounted to about 20-minutes of daylight driving. The other six-hours and forty-minutes were spent glancing from ditch-to-ditch, my eye’s pinballing the breadth of the headlight beams in search of nefarious beasts looking to raise my insurance premiums. They were relentless. One rabbit, one moose (no squirrel), two foxes, two owls, three horses, and I stopped counting deer after 30 (that’s where my mathematical education topped out my second year of kindergarten).

As Patches O’Houlihan once said, “If you’re going to become true dodgeballers, then you’ve got to learn the five d’s of dodgeball; dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge.” Only one animal that we encountered on this Dakota safari failed to become a true dodgeballer. We will never know the answer to the question, “Why did the rabbit cross the road?” I suspect it was to make more rabbits, but that is merely speculation.

Sometime after midnight (both times), I spotted four young bucks loitering on the shoulder of the road, passing around a bottle of blackberry brandy they had stolen from some old stag and smoking Virginia Slims that one of them had lifted from their mother’s purse. They appeared to be trying to cajole the youngest of their renegade bachelor herd into setting my airbags off, but his eyes were watering from a coughing fit from inhaling a Virginia Slim and he mistimed his jump. So it goes.

When we rolled into my mom and dad’s driveway at 3:00am (their time), the tuft of rabbit fur clinging to the bottom of the mudflap was a stark reminder of how fortunate we were to dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge the larger animals we encountered. Maybe rabbits’ feet are lucky?

That moose would have made our Toyota, and myself, a convertible. Dawn was lying down in the backseat and Jackson was fully reclined in the passenger seat, so they most likely would have emerged unscathed. The moose appeared friendly enough, so I’m sure he would have given them a lift to the party after he dusted me off of him.

It was an enjoyable birthday party. A day of laughter and general shenanigans…the usual. A good usual to have while we have the time…ours and theirs.

A handful of times over the past few years I’ve had to drag my aging body in to be inspected by various medical professionals for the evaluation and treatment of various minor medical issues. Garden variety pre-elderly type issues that tend to crop up when something was used to much when it was new. So it begins. So it goes.

Though each of the issues varied, one thought came to mind each and every time I encountered one of the various medical professionals, “How old are you?” It seemed as though all of my appointments over the past few years happened to fall on “Bring Your Kid to Work Day”, but the parents were nowhere to be found.

Don’t get me wrong, kids have been doing a wonderful job running movie theaters and bussing tables for years, but hospitals? “Sonny, I have complete faith in your ability to slide that straw into my 32oz Orange Fanta, but kindly stop waggling that colonoscope around and go fetch the doctor.”

I’m more comfortable with the grizzled vet, someone that has seen it all and won’t be traumatized by the sight of anything I need seen. The issue seems to be that when one reaches the grizzled age as a patient, the grizzled vets of the medical world have hung up their stethoscopes and are doing all they can to unsee all that they’ve seen.

“Who’s your doctor?” Until about 5-years ago I proudly answered that question with, “I don’t have one.” I have one now. I have a doctor. He’s a nice young man. We have a pleasant conversation every October when my annual physical rolls around. Excuse me, I misspoke, they are called “well checks” nowadays. I suppose going in for a “well check” does sound a bit more pleasant than going in for a “physical”.

I went into my first well check with my pleasant young doctor expecting the same protocol I had experienced in the past with sports physicals. The protocol that involved nudity on my behalf and poking and prodding on the doctor’s behalf. Five years of well checks, and my doctor, that pleasant young man, has never once had me remove a stitch of clothing.

Years ago, it was expected that if you were going to the doctor for most anything, your naked butt was going to be wrinkling that odd butcher paper they roll out to shield the exam table from your wretched body stuff.

Earache…naked. Ingrown eyebrow hair…naked. Clubfoot…naked. Sprained thumb…naked.

Part of me is quite all right with having a pleasant fully clothed conversation every October, but another part of me is still in the old school “physical” mindset and feels like I’m being cheated. Would it stifle the pleasant conversation if I were to ask the pleasant young doctor if he’d like me to get naked? Perhaps he’s just too polite to ask?

The kids are all right, and I am quite pleased with the highly skilled and knowledgeable medical care they are able to provide me as I slide towards ABR…Advancing Bodily Ricketiness.

Be well my friends.