Rambling Josh

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.

I hope this column finds you well, or at least well enough. Our varying degrees of well are dependent upon a variety of factors, some of which we can control, and some of which we cannot. As is the case for each of us simmering in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, hoping not to boil over into unwell.

If you are unaware of this pandemic, you have most likely been unwittingly exercising one of the major preventative measures associated with it, social distancing.

Social distancing is a term used by Public Health officials when measures need to be taken to slow the spread of an infectious disease. These measures include limiting or eliminating large social gatherings and staying outside the “spray-zone” of the sacks of germs you may be in the proximity of.

“Official” Public Health officials don’t use the term “spray-zone” or “sacks of germs” when addressing the public, but as a very unofficial official in the realm of public health, I feel they are useful descriptors that paint an appropriate pandemic stifling picture.

The airborne spray-zone, that us sacks of germs are capable of propelling this particular virus, has been determined to be around 6 to 10 feet. These calculations are heavily dependent upon wind speed and direction, the height of the sprayer in relation to the sprayed, and the slobberyness of the sprayer. We owe a debt of gratitude to those handed a tape measure and tasked with making these calculations.

If social distancing is a foreign concept to you, I suggest you contact the introverts in your life for a bit of advice. Text or email is the preferred method of communication, but if you’re in a pinch, a phone call may be permissible…but text before you call.

I always suspected that introverts would one day be called upon to save the world from ruin. Limited social gatherings…can do. Social distancing…be still my heart.

We’re not completely anti-social, more so, selectively social, and we don’t dislike the majority of our fellow sacks of germs in appropriate amounts, at the appropriate distance, 6 to 10 feet for example.

This pandemic, like those that have come before, will come and go…and come and go…and come and go… We each need to do our part to limit the societal impact of these viruses when they come, so that when they go, fewer people go with them.

As Dr. Michael Osterholm, the Director of the Center for Infectious Disease Research and Policy (an official Public Health official), wrote in his book Deadliest Enemy, “If you prevent something from happening because of your actions, you’ll always be second-guessed as to whether the action was necessary. On the other hand, if you don’t act on the information you have and an outbreak occurs, you will be burned at the stake by the media and elected officials.”

Consult a credible source and act. Act reasonably, act logically, and be kind. We’re all in this together…6 to 10 feet apart together.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Say it, don’t spray it. Ya filthy sack of germs.

We’ve had a few days of heavy snow, followed by warm temperatures, optimum snowball weather. This got me thinking, “does one ever outgrow the urge to throw a snowball at a completely unsuspecting person or a passing vehicle”? I suppose that would assume that you have ever been in possession of that urge, desire, or ability in the first place.

Urge, desire, and ability, are all necessary components. The trifecta that precludes one stooping with a smirk to scoop a handful of snow, which possesses just the right moisture level, packing and smoothing it into a snowy sphere (still smirking), and then delivering, in varying velocities and angles, towards the intended target.

Although a smirk is still detectable at this moment, some of the “smirkiness” has faded into gleeful anticipation, or perhaps, pensive apprehension if the target happens to be someone that maybe you shouldn’t have thrown a snowball at. Maybe…maybe not…only one way to find out. As Willy Shakespeare once said, “Boldness be my friend.” Sometimes friends get us beat up. So it goes.

Snuggie by association, the bane of any scrawny 8th grader whose equally scrawny, but bolder, buddy just mouthed off to a couple of J. Geils Band t-shirt wearing, Trans Am driving, feathered hair seniors. So I’ve heard.

Sometimes urge and desire overshadow the ability to peddle your Underoos (Superman…yeah right) out of harms way. A fresh pair of back-to-school Toughskin jeans can further hinder any hopes of escape and evasion, as you won’t be able to properly bend your knees to peddle your mag-wheeled Coast-King at full speed until at least May Day.

The urge and desire I felt as I walked across campus, surrounded by a blanket of fresh fallen temptation, brought that oh so familiar snowball contemplation smirk to my face.

A smirk that I think our campus President may have been a bit too preoccupied to fully notice as we passed each other on the sidewalk, exchanging the habitually common pleasantries adults generally exchange with those they know, but don’t really know.

As we walked in opposite directions, I contemplated the appropriate distance that should be allowed in this particular case. I have no beef with the President, he’s a genuinely kind and caring individual, who treats everyone on campus with authentically humble respect. He acts like one would hope a president of any institution, or perhaps a country, would act.

As this snowball would not be thrown out of malice, or intent to bruise, it would need to be packed lightly and projected towards the target on a gentle arc towards a space between the shoulders and the beltline. Too high or too low would be trouble. Beyond snuggie trouble I suspect.

An inadvertent head shot would be disastrous, as regardless of intent, head shots always illicit anger. Anger that is further fueled by the stream of melting snow snaking its way down your goosebumped back.

Alternatively, a rump shot, although quite humorous when your target is a fellow 12-year old, may sway towards slight humiliation for the 60-year old president of an institution of higher education.

Urge, desire, ability…they were all present and accounted for, but suddenly an odd feeling came over me, and the snowball smirk faded a bit. The odd feeling of adulthood and all its trappings of reason, logic, and common sense.

A bit of smirk fell in the snow that day. Spring thaw is coming, maybe it’ll show up?

Now that our blood glucose levels have begun to stabilize from the St. Valentine’s Day dietary massacre, we can dare to begin entertaining fantasies of spring and all the springy things that accompany it.

There are many well-informed folks that have made it their life’s ambition to study human longevity and all that goes into helping us not be dead sooner rather than later. Barring accidents, and scuffles gone awry with miffed family, the average life expectancy for us Americans is roughly 79-years of age.

That’s a pretty fair amount of time. My contented thoughts on the fairness of that amount of time may decrease in relation to my proximity to that declared expiration date, but I’ll shuffle across that bridge when it comes. On the topic of the perceived shortness of life, Seneca, a Roman Stoic from back in the age of togas, wine, and public bathhouses, was quoted as saying, “life is not too short, we just waste too much of it.”

Seneca went on to blab at length about how we are much more willing to give away our time willy-nilly, without a second thought, than our money. The former of which we cannot make more of. Perhaps we should embrace boredom and tedium for their ability to make minutes pass like hours.

Only have an hour to live? Watch a political debate, it’ll feel like days, and your eventual demise will be a welcomed respite from the droning drudgery of braying donkeys and gassy pachyderms.

The general consensus among researchers, that devote their time to studying our time, is an agreed upon a handful of variables that not only help us live longer, but help us be more alive during that time. Healthspan…quality of life, versus lifespan…quantity of life.

The variables that have been found to impact quality, and help us live until we die, are thought to be food, movement, sleep, social connections, and stress.

When I first started writing this column in 2006, my Grandpa Ardell expressed his concern that I would use this space to brow beat readers about nutrition and health month-after-month. I assured him that I wasn’t interested in such, that brow beating was a waste of time (especially in his case), and I preferred to simply ramble about life in general.

The impetus behind this brief dip into the world of health, is that I wanted to call attention to a few of my fellow Ligniteians who have taken it upon themselves to devote quite a chunk of their allotted free time to creating a space that positively impacts the majority of the healthspan variables previously mentioned.

Every gang needs leaders, people with a vision, and the desire to bring that vision into fruition. The “Wildwood Gang” is no exception. Although the gangs numbers seem to expand every time I have the opportunity to venture to Upstate North Dakota, or creep around Facebook a bit, its success can largely be traced to three individuals.

My uncle, Tim Chrest, Doug Hysjulien, and Jason Durick have done a tremendous job spearheading the transformation of a largely forgotten piece of the prairie into a space where people can come to move in a manner that suits them, in the company of those who suit them. Quality of life, which just might bring about a bit more quantity.

Quantity is a crapshoot, I’d hang my toga on quality, and join the Wildwood Gang. A gang for all seasons. Togas optional.

It’s that time of year I suppose, one eye looking nostalgically back and the other prophetically forward, leaving us somewhere in the middle and somewhat cross-eyed. Cross-eyed, or possibly peering out of the corners of both eye’s simultaneously? It’s dependent upon the direction you were oriented when nostalgia struck, and the dexterity of your eyes.

Many moons ago, while traipsing around on the high school gridiron, opposing players sent my eyes wandering in such a manner on a few occasions. Surprisingly, a luxurious mullet does not provide any protection from concussive blows to the head, but you look absolutely stunning while you’re unconscious. So it goes.

This time around we not only have old and new year’s to look back and forth upon, but an old and new decade to deal with as well. If you have managed to not yet ponder the upcoming decade, some are not prone to such ponderings, may I suggest that you don’t.

Leave the days, months, and years of the looming decade to themselves. Let their coming and going be of no concern to you, rather, merrily plod about the present without a thought of you and yours in 2030. To do otherwise can potentially leave one in a general state of melancholy with a slight case of malaise.

“Can potentially” is a lie, it will. I was not warned as you have been. Perhaps too little too late, but you have been warned just the same. So from this point forward, if you choose to proceed with a ten-year prophetic projection, all sympathy will be rescinded and smugly replaced with “I told you so”.

“Melancholy”…sounds like something one might contract from wrestling with cantaloupe. “I had that muskmelon right where I wanted it, then I took a honeydew to the ear and stumbled over a casaba. A witness, I believe his name was Tracy Byrd, said that I dipped down, spun around, and do-si-doed, but I don’t remember much of that. All I know is that I came to an hour later with a mullet full of watermelon seeds and melancholy ear.”

A couple thousand years ago, the ancient Stoics warned that the past should be left in the past, and the future should not be excessively contemplated. They told us so. I expect no sympathy for the brief bout of melancholy I contracted from pondering such things as, “at the end of this decade I am 47…that means I’ll be…” or “the kids are in their 20’s now…” or “I got these underwear for Christmas in 2010…”.

A decade is too broad of a pondering to safely traverse…forward or back…especially in brittle underwear.

As has been said, “We stand on a narrow peak with the abyss of the ages on either side.” Whether you look to your left or to your right, forward or back, matters not, you are where you are as a result of your past, and you will be where you will be because of what you do in all the “nows” on your narrow peak of the present.

So, do good, and “If you drink don’t drive…do the watermelon crawl. Have fun ya' all”.