Rambling Josh

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”.

January is gone, the new year is old news, and reversion to the status quo is now in full effect. Step off the treadmill, it’ll still be there next January. Dawn and I ended the month with a Salsa dancing lesson. These things happen when you watch documentaries on the making of the movie Dirty Dancing. I know what you’re thinking, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

Ourselves, and about 40 other promising Baby and Johnny’s, were put through the paces, for about two-hours of very beginner Salsa dance lessons by a very good dance instructor.

She was a kindly lady, and the skillful manner in which she deftly conveyed her 30-years of experience and took full command of a room full of left feet, was most impressive. Do not judge her ability as an instructor based upon the ability of the student. Some Salsa students get left behind. The world needs tomato paste too. So it goes.

I think a lot of things, most of which probably don’t very accurately represent reality, but

I would like to think that my Salsa dancing wasn’t too bad. Not Johnny Castle spicy by any means, maybe closer to sugar-free ketchup. Have you tried that stuff? Not good…needs sugar.

On the few brief occasions that I managed to stop staring at my feet and telling them what to do, I glanced up, and I noticed there were many better and a few worse, but most everyone was smiling. Except that one guy. There’s always that one guy. Don’t be that guy.

It appeared that some of the people in the class had done this before, and had just came to show off their Salsa skills. While most of us looked as though we were simultaneously chopping down a Russian Olive tree with a butter knife and stomping out a brush fire, their bodies effortlessly moved in a manner that made me suspect that their bones had become disjointed and their muscles had spontaneously liquefied.

All that Salsa spice seemed well beyond the safety rating of my bodily capabilities. My hips are under enough duress trying to keep my pants up, I can’t ask them for anything more.

Dawn has endured my “free-lance” style of dance interpretation for many years, and often questions the legitimacy of the “A” I received in the Social Dance class I took in college. Her skepticism is not without merit, the same teacher gave me an “A” in Beginning Swimming as well, and I spent most of the semester lying on the bottom of the pool thrashing about wildly.

Woody Allen once said, “Eighty percent of life is showing up.” An 80% is a “B”, I showed up in class every day, the other 10% must have been pity. Show up, show some effort and appreciation, and people just might cut you a little slack when you accidently step on their toes.

It was an enjoyable experience being in and of a crowd, yet alone with the dance partner that has managed my odd and unpredictable steps so well for so many years.

Salsa? Mildly.

Many moons ago, when the kids were kids, and so were my wife and I, I began writing a Christmas letter to send out to friends and family each year. I’m sure many of you do the same. I suppose this form of communication is what we relied upon before social media wormed its way into our lives. So it goes. Anyway…what follows is this year’s Ellis Family Christmas letter. Have a lovely 2020…we can all see clearly now.

This year it seems that I have been particularly hesitant to disrupt the serene wintery landscape a blank sheet of white paper so graciously and effortlessly provides, with the dashes, lines, curves, and dots, that we who can read and comprehend the English language, rely upon to move that which is in our heads to the heads of others. If your head is not particularly interested in that which is in mine, avert your eyes from the dashes, lines, curves, and dots that I am about to commission in an attempt to paint a picture of the past year in the lives of this particular Ellis family. If you are curious, and not a cat, carry on.

In October, Dawn and I escorted Sierra to Brooklyn, the quaint one in New York, to help her get settled into her apartment, and get ourselves settled into the reality of it all. There is a lot of “all” in that neck of the woods, but after spending about a week roaming around, and getting to know her 8.5 million neighbors (nice folks), some of the nausea and mild terror of leaving her behind subsided…some. The city suits her, and we are quite thankful for the familiar faces of her fellow Montana State film school alumni that make up the wonderful network of roommates and friends she has so far away from home. Within a few weeks of beating the streets, she became gainfully employed with an actual job, in her actual field, as a production assistant with SHOWTIME’s Billions. So yeah…she’s doing it…she’s gaining on that person she set out to be, and managing to bring that sweet, caring person she’s always been along for the ride.

Jackson flew the coop too. He didn’t ditch us to the extreme that his sister did, but he ditched us just the same. So it goes. I suppose as Dawn and I “approach” middle-age we have started to take on a wee dusting of that “old person” smell, and since neither of the kids inherited my anosmia, one can’t blame the youngins for putting a little distance between themselves and dear old mom and dad. Jackson tried his hand at the restaurant business this summer as a busser and a host, but found that mounting a fake smile upon his face, and being hospitable to tourists on a regular basis, was not his cup of spilled pop. He’s a kind and caring young man, but I suppose everyone has boundaries to the extent of cordial niceties they can lay at the feet of “hangry” strangers. He’s found a new gig where a smile is optional, and interactions with two- and four-wheeled objects outweighs the interactions with bipedal Homo sapiens. Meaning can be elusive, but he’s searching for it, and thinks it may possibly reside among the ranks of the Air Force.

As for the “dusty” ones, Dawn and I are just dandy. No kids interrupting our Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy cocktail hour with all their needy demands…“I’m hungry…my appendix hurts…blah…blah…blah…” We still have Pre, yeah the kids abandoned their dog too…sad…sad…sad. Doeth their wretchedness know no bounds? So other than a pokey old Lab that spends his days sleeping and farting, not necessarily in that order, it’s just the two of us again, just how it started. Life has brought a fair amount of growing and going this way and that our way over the years, but we’ve managed to keep ahold of one another throughout. We have much to be thankful for. Thankful our children are searching for their “thing”, and thankful we have gratifying vocations that allow us to do our “thing”. Dawn is in her 11th year at Promotion Physical Therapy, helping people move along with a few less hitches in their giddy up. I’m in my 6th year at Chadron State College, where I am quite grateful for all that my colleagues and students bring to my life.

Life has been kind to us, and we hope kindness finds you and yours as well. All the best.

The Ellis Family

Josh, Dawn, Sierra, Jackson & Pre

It is with anticipation and gratitude that we prep for our journey to upstate North Dakota to join family in the celebration of several rounds of celebratory events. Ding-ding…hope you haven’t been slacking in your quick witted sarcasm training.

On the 18th, mom and dad’s marriage odometer rolls over to 48-years, the 20th Grandma Helen, and perhaps the fire department, will extinguish an impressive bonfire of 90 birthday candles, the 24th my brother Jarvis, and my sister-in-law Janice, celebrate 17-years of marriage, and we’ll top it all off with a Chrest family Christmas gathering.

That should sufficiently shake the snow globe of holiday cheer. As we know, it can get a little brisk up north this time of year, so to prevent freezing and cracking, it is suggested that snow globes be fill with solutions that are no less than 80-proof. Exercise caution, as this does substantially increase the risk for explosion if exposure to sparks or open flames occurs.

Public Service Message: If you can’t be careful at least be cautious, make your holiday gatherings OSHA compliant, FR clothing for young and old alike. Results may vary.

Elizabeth Helen Ellis, yeah that’s her “real” name, although I’ve never heard her called Elizabeth. You try it first, and let me know how it goes. Grandma Helen was born in Selz, North Dakota, the second of ten children born to John Kraft and Anastasia Mattern. I’m sure, as the second of ten children, the development of her cooking and cleaning skills was not an option, but rather a necessity.

As the mother of nine herself, and her years of work in Johnson’s Cafe, managing the Lignite Lanes, a school cook and custodian at Burke Central, and her helping my dad keep the meat room spiffy when my parents ran the grocery store in Lignite, she has cleaned up a lot of messes.

Grandma’s parents, John and Anastasia, were joined in marriage January 3rd, 1927 in Selz. I was only about 5-years old when Anastasia passed, so I have no recollection of her. Great Grandpa Kraft died in 1993, and I have memories of him playing his accordion and spitting streams of chewing tobacco into the large brass spittoon next to his easy chair while he flipped channels between various baseball games.

I have a very vivid memory of one of my younger cousins as a toddler tipping that spittoon up to his mouth for a swig. Before any of the adult types glanced away from their hand of cards to intervene, he had streaks of brown tobacco juice streaking across his cheeks. Card games were serious business, not to be interrupted by the throngs of children that were always underfoot.

We can trace Grandma Helens ancestors on her father’s side back as far as her Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather, Georg Kraft, who was born in western Germany in 1776. Around 1808 several families took a 3-month journey east to establish settlements in southern Russia. These Black Sea Germans settled several villages in the Odessa, Russia region, and those village names, Strasburg and Selz, moved with them when they packed up and headed for America in the late 1800s.

It is interesting to contemplate the lives of those who came before us, and the various forces that moved them about as they searched for a better life. A life that was theirs, a life of opportunity, challenges, love, and loss. So it goes…and goes…and goes…

Come join us at the Lignite Senior Building for cake and coffee on December 20th from 4-6pm, and help us celebrate Grandma Helen’s 90th birthday. If there’s a BINGO game somewhere in North Dakota that day, we may be celebrating without her presence, but celebrate we shall.