Rambling Josh

I don’t know him, I never will, but I will most likely see an image of him for quite some time. Maybe that’s all he wanted? Just wanted to be seen, to be thought of, to have someone shed some tears and feel specifically for him. I’ve done all that for him. Now what?

There’s a bridge that crosses the creek, a bridge that takes the bike path from one side of the creek to the other. I like the bike path, it follows the same path as the creek through town, the path gets you away from traffic, the creek drowns out the sound of that traffic. Creeks drown things out, that’s what they do. So it goes.

I like the bridge too. I always stop on the bridge, right in the middle, where its gentle arc up turns to a gentle arc down. I stop in the middle because in the middle all I can hear is the creek, and when all I hear is the creek it makes room in my mind for things that need room.

Why did he do it here? Why did he do it at all? If I had made it to the bridge a little sooner would all that happened have happen differently? Maybe better? Maybe worse? Maybe I should have stayed home, stayed away from the creek, away from the bridge? But, I like the creek, I like the bridge, I like the way the world looks and sounds from there.

I know what the world looked and sounded like the moment before he could no longer see or hear this world that he felt he no longer wanted to be a part of. What he did to himself is over for him, just beginning for me. The creek, the bridge, they are still there, but they are different now. Different to me, because of him.

I’d rather it be different for me than someone else I suppose. Someone much younger, someone just learning to ride their bike, someone just learning to love the bike path, the creek, the bridge. It can stay as it has always been for them.

It could have been different for him, could have been different for me, but it is exactly what it is for both of us. Like the creek, I will move on. Move on under many more bridges, over many more rocks, through life, a part of life. Move on in a manner I wish he could have. Move on and hope that I can look down upon the water from the middle of that bridge and see water again, only water.

Water. Not him. Not that way. But for now I see him. Lifeless, because he chose to be lifeless. I know nothing of the many “whys” that may have moved him to this choice? From that same bridge I’ve paused many times and felt thankful for the life I have, felt moved to smile, felt moved to live deeper and fuller. Same bridge…different lives.

If you feel as though you can no longer bridge some of the gaps in your life, please reach out and talk to someone.

After many months of plague induced recess, it’s back-to-school time for many, myself included. This August is going to be a bit different than most Augusts any of us can recollect. Unless you were around during the Spanish Flu of 1918, which if you were, your recollection ability may be a bit compromised. Being 130-years old, or dead, does that.

Many people have put in many hours over the past months to prepare, as much as one can prepare, to open up the schools again in as safe a manner as possible. At least as safe a manner as our current understanding of the situation allows for. We may be right, we may be wrong, only time will tell.

As Theodore Roosevelt once said, “In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.”

Many have done “something”, many have put themselves into “the arena”, and, as is most always the case, some have done nothing but criticize the actions of those doing the work. Simply running one’s mouth is simple. I guess it is “doing something”, but it’s rarely doing something useful.

Back to Teddy, our adopted son of the Dakotas, and his famous Citizenship in a Republic speech, “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 (and woman) who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I thank those that have spent much of the past months in the arena. Doing what needs to be done, so that parents who never intended on being in charge of their child’s ability to comprehend mathematics can go back to basic parental duties.

Things like replacing the cardboard tube with a new roll of toilet paper, not putting an empty milk carton back in the fridge, noticing you have dog crap on your shoes before walking through the house. Run of the mill parenting things. Things that were in the “Stuff You’ll Need to Relentlessly Harp on Your Kids About” parenting manual.

I’m fairly certain that there isn’t a mask large enough to contain the smiles of parents dropping their kids off at school this year.

We don’t know what the coming months are going to bring, we never actually knew, but we used to have a fairly close proximity to the general way of things. We don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but as John Wooden once said, “Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.” So it goes.

Happy August. The time machine seems to have slipped into a higher gear the past few weeks. There’s a lot more summer stretching off into the rear-view mirror than on the horizon ahead. As Joni Mitchell sings, “the seasons they go round and round…”

I’m looking forward to getting back on campus for the fall semester, and am hopeful that we are able to keep the plague at bay. Hope is useful to an extent, but in reality, bringing a few thousand students from all over the globe to a college campus is most likely going to generate some viral activity. Viral activity beyond the norm of a college campus.

I was able to fly the coop last week for four or five days of cabin time. Just me and the dog, it worked out on both of our schedules. He’s good company, and being a 12-year old lab, most of his go has went, so he’s basically a lumpy rug that eats and farts. So it goes.

The cabin is a special place, and I am quite grateful for every moment I get to spend there. In his book “Walden”, Henry David Thoreau wrote, “I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.” I thought of that often as I looked at the empty chairs in the cabin and pondered who I’d like to have sitting with me?

Some people are good at just sitting with you. Most likely because you’re good at just sitting with them? Just sitting, just being, in that space where the silence between words outnumbers the words. Less is more…more or less.

I’ve been waiting for a song about our cabin to present itself, and on this last trip the words rolled off the green tin roof, and were kind enough to let me collect them. The song is called “Little Log Cabin”, and I hope to sit with you there some day.

There’s a little log cabin we call Wolves Ridge
In the Bull Mountains of Montana is where it lives
It sits quietly amongst the pines and the tall grass
Built with love, built with friendship, built to last

Chorus:

Through the winter storms and the summer heat
It stands up to it all so we can just be
Just be together, just be in love
In that little log cabin under the stars above

Music and smoke fills the cool night air
Whiskey and laughter like you haven’t a care
Lovers and family old dogs and old friends
Warmed by the fire of this little log cabin

(Repeat Chorus)

We come when we can, we leave when we must
Head back to the world and all that needs us
That little log cabin we call Wolves Ridge
Waits in the Bull Mountains, yeah that’s where it lives

(Repeat Chorus)

I was conducting a roundup of stuff that is no longer of use to our family, so that it could be donated to those that it may be of use to. This particular roundup was quite successful, yielding seven boxes of stuff. Mainly clothes, books, and shoes that had served their purpose for us, or never ended up fulfilling the purpose we’d had in mind when they were purchased.

As is always the case during a stuff roundup, one always comes across things that have managed to be forgotten or misplaced for whatever reason. A forgotten box of photo albums can quickly put a stuff roundup on hold. An hour can easily pass as you find yourself standing over a box of memories, misty-eyed with nostalgia, flipping through pages of photos from when the kids were little, and loved ones lost were still among us.

This roundup had plenty of that. So it goes.

In a box marked “Jackson’s Room”, I came across a book “The Dangerous Book for Boys” by Conn and Hal Iggulden, that we had given Jackson back in 2007 for his 8th birthday. Jackson turns 21 in a few weeks, not a boy anymore, at least not as far as the world outside of his mom and dad is concerned. He’ll of course always be our boy.

I had written a note to Jackson on the inside cover the book. A note that I had forgotten I had written. It went like this…

Inside every boy lies the man they are destined to be. Inside every man lies the boy they once were. Enjoy being a boy. Enjoy becoming a man. Enjoy being a man. In short, enjoy the journey of life and all the adventures it offers you. If it ever appears that there are no adventures, look harder, they are always there, or they can be created. As you grow into manhood don’t leave the boy behind, you’ll need him. You’ll need him to see all that is good in life. You’ll need him to see the joy of life. A man always needs to keep the little boy in him alive…always. I wish you the best of life. I wish to share in your life, and you in mine. You are my son, my little boy…always. Love Dad.

As Jackson approaches his 21st birthday, my wishes for him remain the same as they were when he turned 8, and I suspect the same will be true for all his years to come. If the chronology of life goes as planned, I won’t always be around to share in his life, that is supposed to be the way of it I suppose.

We only get to have and to hold for so long in life. We can’t have everything, and we shouldn’t hold so tightly that it stifles the growth and development of those within the orbit of our lives. A loose grip is much less fatiguing for all involved, and can be maintained longer with much less effort and angst.

Bit-by-bit, day-by-day, year-by-year…our grip on Jacksons life has gradually loosened more and more, but we’re within reach if he needs us…or, more likely, we need him.

Happy Birthday Jackson. We love you young man.

In lieu of my husband writing to you this week, I inquired if he wouldn’t mind if I would be able to write this week’s edition. He didn’t mind and I hope you don’t either. The reason I asked to write the column is because this is a way for me to honor my grandma Rosella who passed away the last day of May after being on this Earth for 97 years, two months, and eight days.

97 years, two months, and eight days. Many memories created during that time.

As in life, moments transpire and memories are created. Most memories are vivid. Some memories begin to fade. While other memories change. Memories are recalled in an instant while others need just a little prodding to reveal themselves.

For Grandma, the last 8 or so years, her memories began to fade more and more. I began to wonder if this is how Grandma Rosella felt at the beginning of her coexistence with Alzheimer’s. Well, her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren will reminisce to make those memories stay vivid.

In reminiscing, most of the memories of Grandma I recall came from the time when Grandpa and Grandma lived on the farm south of Webster, SD. I miss Grandpa and Grandma’s farm. This place holds so many memories. So many family gatherings. So many childhood lessons.

The memories of the farm, Grandpa Ray, and Grandma Rosella are extensive. The farm is where I was able to spend so much of my childhood and teenage years. I may not have spent as much time there if I didn’t have a little competitive streak. You can’t let your older sister get all the rewards such as getting extra candy because she was the one helping Grandma. Oh no! I love candy! And I wanted that treasure trove all to myself so I would ask to go to the farm whenever possible to help Grandma, and even though the intention wasn’t to learn life’s lessons, it actually did.

On the farm you learned sustainability before it was popular. You learned hard work pays off. You learned as Grandma would say “Haste makes waste” when Grandpa’s impatience and temper with fixing the farm machinery created a bigger issue so off Grandma and I would go to a bigger town 45 minutes away to retrieve a part for the combine or tractor.

There were other rewards, lessons, and memories that came to be by being on the farm and with Grandma…. Dancing with Grandma in the kitchen to Dolly, Kenny, or Barbara Mandrell; having a treat of Schwan’s ice cream; biking along the pasture road with the prairie summer wind blowing through your hair and learning about nature; feeding the farm animals; learning to bake; and playing cards in the middle of the afternoon.

On a rare occasion, we would have the opportunity to take a nap in the afternoon. Oh, one time, I heard someone snoring from Grandpa and Grandma’s bedroom during one of these special nap days. So I tiptoed over to their bedroom. There Grandma was snoring gently. When she woke, I told her she must have been really tired because she was snoring. Grandma denied that for decades because she said “I don’t fall asleep during the day, and I don’t snore.”

This past weekend, I inquired with my aunt and cousins about some of their favorite memories of Grandma. The memories were about riding the stuffed animal Holstein cows they had in their living room, dancing in the kitchen, and of course, the foods Grandma made. But the favorite memory is the love Grandpa and Grandma had. This was inspiring to see.

One of those loving memories I recall time and time again occurred one afternoon after dinner (I’m from the eastern part of SD so lunch is known as dinner), Grandpa cornered Grandma in the kitchen to give her a peck on the cheek before heading back out to do chores and Grandma was giddy and giggling while “fighting” him away, but Grandpa succeeded with his quest and planted a great big kiss on Grandma.

You knew Grandpa loved and respected Grandma throughout their marriage even when the disease of Alzheimer’s began in Grandma. Grandpa stood right by her and helped her because he knew she needed something when she didn’t know she needed yet.

Thank you Grandma for the memories. I love you and miss you.

Prior to the plague, Dawn and I had planned to spend Mother’s Day weekend in Brooklyn with our daughter Sierra. Mother’s Day coincided with the end of the spring semester for me, so I had planned to hang out for a few weeks on Sierra’s couch by night, and stroll the city by day. Plans changed for us, as they most likely have for everyone else. The city will have to wait for my stroll. So it goes.

Memorial Day weekend is usually spent either in Lignite, or in Grenville, South Dakota. Dawn’s father, and four of his seven brothers, are veterans, so we often make our way to eastern South Dakota to honor them as they honor theirs.

As a result of the previously mentioned plague, those plans also changed, and we ended up sequestering ourselves in a remote campground in the Black Hills for a few days of camping in our 53-year-old camper, hiking on our 40-some-year-old feet, and fire staring with smoke stung eyes. Use them or lose them they say. “They” say a lot of things.

Our camper is a 1967 Aristocrat Lo-Liner, that was manufactured in California, and gradually bought and sold its way to the Dakotas. My parents purchased it from Don and Kathy Knutson, sometime last century, way back in the 1990s I believe. And for the past eight years or so, Dawn and I have been its proud keepers.

Technically, it’ll sleep six, but anything more than two seems to be a bit more than anything I’m willing to be a part of in the quaint, and mildly confined, space of the Aristocrat.

Admittedly, much like the fate of many campers I suspect, the Aristocrat has logged many…many…many more hours in our driveway than it has on the road or in a campground. We hope to change that this summer. Hope. It’s as good a four-letter-word as any…well almost.

The campground we stayed at was small, fairly remote, fairly secluded, and fairly quiet. Other than the splash, babble, and rush of the lovely little creek a hop, skip, and maybe another hop, from our camper, it was perfectly quiet. Almost. Almost some of the time.

The rest of the time the creek song was in competition with the wail of one or another gas powered generators from some of the other campers. The creek song lost.

We don’t have a generator. The Aristocrat is pretty self-contained, and the energy it does use is sufficiently, and quietly, provided by propane. Having children sort of made other people’s children a bit less annoying, so perhaps if we had a generator we wouldn’t be so annoyed by the other generators?

When I say “we”, I mostly mean “me”. Dawn was annoyed, but she handles these sorts of auditory annoyances with much more grace than myself. I’ve been accused of being the “noise police”, and Barney Fife was wildly itching for an arrest that would provide some silence of the natural kind.

Bird chirps, creek babbles, flatulent mountain lion…flatulent camper…anything but the steady, persistent roar of someone’s hotdogs staying cold (or hot), or their television televising, or their whatever whatevering.

Selfish? Perhaps, but aren’t bird chirps, creek babbles, and mountain lion farts the reason we drag ourselves, and much more of our stuff than is necessary, into the woods? Let no mountain lion fart in vain. After all, silence is a virtue.

Happy summer my friends.

Last year, towards the end of summer, we were in Lignite for a visit, and to be a part of the celebration of Doc Steven’s 90th Birthday party. You don’t get the opportunity to celebrate a 90th birthday party all that often. Especially one where the 90-year-old guest of honor is as spry and sharp as Doc, so North we did go.

It doesn’t seem like that was a “last year” event already, but we’ve all been tossed around in a bit of time warp since the plague rolled in. So it goes.

While we were hanging around, visiting, and stopping in to see the various folks we tend to stop in and see when we’re in town, we stopped into the Dixon residents for a visit, where Aunt Susan was entertaining some of the Stevens clan, and a few others.

Aunt Susie, always hospitable, offered us some wine and homemade rhubarb pie. I believe Linda Thomas had brought the pie by shortly before we had arrived. It was still warm. Wine I can take or leave, but homemade rhubarb pie, still warm from the oven, with a scoop of ice cream, that I’ll take anytime.

I was thinking of that day a bit ago, not for any particular reason, other than I think of Lignite and the people that make it home often. The result of such pondering was a song, pondering is good for producing songs and such. This one is called “Your Town”. It’s a little peppier than the sad sappy songs I’m so fond of. Must have been the pie.

Verse 1

Family and friends gather on the lawn

A summer nights' breeze carries laughter and song

North Dakota sunset burns crimson and gold

Crickets serenade the young and the old

Chorus

Warm rhubarb pie and homemade wine

Simple and sweet suits us just fine

Look to your left, look all around

These are your people, this is your town

These are your people, and this, is your town

Verse 2

The ring of the horseshoes, the crack of the bat

Evenings are full of sounds like that

Friends around a fire ask you to pull up a seat

Marshmallows on a stick, there’s s’mores to eat

Repeat Chorus

Verse 3

No matter who you are or where you roam

These people and this place will always be home

Come on in, come on and stay awhile

It won’t take long for your soul to smile

Repeat Chorus

Congratulations, and all the best, to all those that are hanging up their high school careers this month, time to see what the next chapter has in store. No matter what happens in that next chapter, always remember your town, and all those that have been a part of moving you from K to 12…and beyond.

Happy Cinco de Mayo hangover my friends. Hopefully your feet didn’t swell too much from all that margarita salt, and you weren’t able to slide your hooves into your Crocs and shuffle to the mailbox to see if your stimulus check arrived. I went barefoot…still no luck…maybe tomorrow.

I failed Spanish in college so I can’t really say for certain what the exact translation of “Cinco de Mayo” is in English, or whatever language happens to be your mother tongue. “Mother tongue”, what an unfortunate, and mildly disturbing, phrase.

If I owned a deli I’d have a sandwich on the menu called Mother Tongue, and whenever someone ordered it I’d tell them to clean their room, stand up straight, and stop hanging around with those hooligans. Sound advice with a side of bacon. Everything should come with a side of bacon…even a side of bacon. Redundancy would never be so welcomed.

Speaking of (pun intended) …Mother’s Day is creeping up on us. I think more things should “creep up” on us, it would add an element of pensive exhilaration to life and all its stuff.

Come to think of it, I don’t think my dear mother ever told me to clean my room, stand up straight, or to stop hanging around with those hooligans. Possibly because she’s quite realistic, and readily saw the folly in wasting her breathe on such triviality when there were much more potentially serious matters at hand. Namely, combustibles and flammables, the dynamic duo of choice with my brother and I (aka…those hooligans).

Thankfully our level of idiocy has seemed to skip a generation, and my wife was able to mother our children with “normal” motherliness. By “normal”, I mean extraordinary, and in the complete absence of combustibles and flammables. Boring kids. I never once had to start a sentence with, “What would have happened if….?”.

The pat response to such a question, if you’re a hooligan with an exasperated, yet, loving mother, is a moderate, but thoughtful shrug with a slightly downturned head and wide upward turned eyes that poignantly express innocents and more than a hint of dullardness. Trust me.

I have been quite fortunate to have tremendous women in my life. Women that are strong, but caring, sweet, but a little salty, and capable of unquestionable love in the face of mountainous dullardness. Us hooligans…us fricken' idiots…we love you, and we always will.

As I roll into finals week at the college, my inbox is full of papers, papers that I assigned, and which I now regret. One of my requests of the students is that they properly cite their sources so that the reader can differentiate between their thoughts and thoughts of their sources. It is painful for all involved, but it is my job, and I am quite thankful to be able to keep on keepin' on during these plague ravished times.

So to cite my sources…although it can be eerily difficult to differentiate between his thoughts and mine, “dullard” is one of my brother Gabe’s favorite words, so when I use it, I think of him (insert sarcasm).

Happy May, Happy Mother’s Day…Spring is here, and sooner, or more likely later, we’ll be able to get out and about and cough and sneeze to our hearts content. Like people only a mother could love.

Halfway through many of the days of the past few weeks, I’ve taken pause from whatever it is I’m doing, and think, or more often than not, say aloud, “what day is today anyway?” Good question. What day is today anyway? A better question may be, “does it matter”? It used to matter. Many things used to matter.

At certain times of certain days of the week many of us were expected to be places that we aren’t expected, or allowed, to be anymore since the plague rolled in and tied our hands of time behind our back. Those hands of time that pointed this way or that seem to be hanging forlorn and mute like a lop-eared basset hound, not allowed, or able, to climb on the sofa with all whom they care about.

I miss things, as I’m sure many of you do. Missing things is good I suppose, for if we didn’t miss things that are currently no more, then why did we give our time to them in the first place? Obligations of various shades I suppose. Things that may or may not have been of our choosing, but things more so of need and necessity.

I miss simple things. I miss walking into a classroom and attempting to orchestrate a discussion that might move students towards thinking about something they never cared to think about before. I even miss when that attempt falls flat, and I’m left flapping in the breeze in front of the glassed over eyes of the unmoved and uninterested. So it goes.

I miss sitting at my wife and I’s favorite rooftop bar in Rapid City during happy hour, and just being happy in the company of the one I love, while looking out over the city and the hills that we enjoy so much.

I miss not having to think about staying six-feet away from people, and not viewing everyone as a potential COVID-19 dirty bomb that could cough me into a pandemic statistic. I imagine this, and the other things I miss, won’t gravitate back towards any sense of normal any time soon.

The curve we are supposed to be “flattening” is not so flat, and the hands of time that used to be so useful are not so useful. It’s an odd time to be a human. What time? I have no idea. The days seem to be on a loop, with the only difference being the state of my facial hair.

Should I shave? Should I shower? Should I put clothes on that weren’t put on for the past few days? Are clothes even necessary if you’re not mowing the lawn or cleaning out the gutters? If I weren’t married to a woman that I still attempt to impress more than depress, these questions would drift by unanswered before they were even asked.

What do you miss from the pre-plague days? A better question may be, “what don’t you miss”? What went away that could stay away? What matters?

All the best my friends. Stay well.

I hope the plague has left you alone to tend to your shelter in place business…whatever that business may be. No questions asked, no judgements. What happens in your shelter stays in your shelter, unless of course you get a bit tipsy, and your better judgement turns its blurry eye toward posting a video on social media.

For the sake of future employment, once this apocalyptic pool drains, have a loved one duct tape mittens to your blabber-mouthed hands. This will keep your fingers from walking your future self eyebrow deep into a permanent self-quarantine quagmire.

The college where I work, like every other educational institution in the world, asked us to move our classes online until a sneeze is not cause for duck-and-cover. Most of the courses that I was teaching face-to-face this semester, I had taught online at one time or another, so it wasn’t too much of a hassle to shift gears halfway through the semester.

The students seem to have taken it in stride, as college students often do, and were most likely tired of having to sit and watch me pace around and blab anyway. So it goes.

I am quite cognizant of the fact that “it wasn’t too much of a hassle” is probably not the catch-phrase consensus you would hear from the majority of educators whose reality suddenly went virtual over the past few weeks, and I feel for them.

I feel for everyone whose world has been knocked a bit wonky as of late, and count myself among the fortunate that have been able to keep on keepin' on. Business, sort of as usual, from the socially distant comfort of my kitchen table.

I feel for those whose place of employment has been shuttered and left them without all that their place of employment brought to their lives. I feel for those who, like my wife, continue to go to work and face the day-in-and-day-out uncertainty that each person they come into contact with brings.

I teach completely online during the summer semesters, and it is a bit embarrassing to admit that the current shelter in place, social distancing, stay spitting distance away from homo sapiens other than your spouse mandates, have left me feeling…normal. My normal anyway. We each have our own version of normal, which is most likely abnormal to anyone that is not us.

Anyone that is not us is a lot of anyone’s, so don’t get too carried away patting yourself on your abnormal back…weirdo.

Feeling “normal” when many in the world have been plunged into anything but is odd, and sometimes unpleasant. Not unpleasant in any manner that would, or should, elicit concern or sympathy from anyone, but unpleasant in a guilty sort of way. I was raised Catholic, so guilt is no stranger.

This guilt is that which comes from you having yours, and somebody else not having theirs. You having yours through dumb luck, and they not having theirs through no fault of their own.

I wish all the best to all of you that have lost a significant portion of that which made your life yours, and sincerely hope it returns soon.

As with any situation, some good, and some bad, will inevitably be left in its wake. I know that trite platitudes of empathy, sympathy, and general good-will happy talk are of little use to those with the scale currently tipping predominately towards the bad, but…

That’s a big but, and I honestly don’t know what words would be useful following it? Someone once said that each of us is the center of “a” world (not “the” world), and that we have a responsibility to that world of which we are the center of and to the people that share its orbit.

I wish you, and your world, all the best.