Rambling Josh

Each year for the past 40 years the Irish Fair of Minnesota has been bringing a bit of Ireland to the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. Specifically, since 2001, to Harriet Island Regional Park on the banks of the Mississippi River in downtown St. Paul.

It’s Irish everything for about three days each August…music, food, drink, a variety of games and activities, and vendors selling their wares. It also offers some prime people watching for those that enjoy such. As aficionados of Irish music, libation, and people watching, myself, and my good friend Paul, ventured east a few weeks ago to soak in some of the festivities.

“Soak” we did, as very Ireland like weather settled in on the fair for a bit Saturday evening. Everyone took the mild hurricane in stride, as reasonable people do, especially when reason has moved them to huddle under a circus tent serving up flights of Irish whiskey and beer. A roof held aloft by Irish song and drink is fairly weatherproof.

The rain came down and ratcheted up the people watching festivities a notch or two, as one could observe different folks accepting the dampness in different ways. Some, as I mentioned, huddled under tents, some of the prepared type strode about under umbrellas with an air of superiority about them, and of course some just strode about, as if they were preparing to compete in a wet kilt contest.

I was sitting between Paul and a chatty lady that popped open an umbrella as the rain began to fall. She leaned the umbrella my way and said “sorry” to Paul, “the umbrella’s not big enough for three”.

Paul and I have been friends for over 20-years, and in social situations like this we tend to lean more towards the “every man for themselves” credo, rather than “never leave a man behind”, so I wasn’t real surprised when Paul shrugged and dashed off to stand somewhat out of the rain under the partial roof of the main stage completely removed from story time with a stranger. So it goes.

“Sorry” may have been the first word she said, but it was hardly the last. I sat politely nodding to her steady stream of words, as a steady stream of rain rolled down the umbrella soaking the half of me that wasn’t allotted shelter. I can’t recall much of what she said, partly because she said so much of it, and partly because I was contemplating whether being half wet with the mayor of “Chattyville” was better than being completely soaked in silence.

The answer was obvious to me, but it seemed rude to kick the kindness of a stranger to the curb, so I sat and let her talk at one ear as rain water quietly cascaded down the other.

Once the rain let up a bit, the dry half of me felt sorry for the damp half and bought a shiny new Irish sweater to ward off the evening chill and to prevent the possibility of my shivering attracting the attention of any good Samaritans with blanket space and a docket full of well-rehearsed stories.

The highlight of the Irish Fair for me was when The High Kings finished their performance by singing “The Parting Glass”. A mass of us stood together in front of the stage, arms around the shoulders of the next, swaying and singing along. A beautifully simple song prompting the voices of strangers to unify in the rain and tilt their gaze skyward in unmitigated joy and just be for a bit.

Sláinte.

I’m sure I’ve spoke of much of this before, but it’s on my mind, and like many of my students, you probably weren’t paying attention the first time around anyway, so it’s new to you.

A few years back, not that many, but enough that many people we cared deeply about are no longer here for us to turn to when we’d like to turn to them, the Chrest family was gathered at the farm as they often did. And as often (closer to always) was the case, stories and laughter were the currency being exchanged.

After one such exchange, with my Mom in the lead, my Grandpa Ardell turned to me and asked with a smile, “Is that mother of yours ever going to grow up?” Grandpa was in his early 70s at the time, with less time in front of him than any of us knew. Maybe he knew, but it was going to take more than terminal cancer to dampen that wonderful man’s spirit and hardy laugh.

A legendary laugh that exploded like no other. Some things fall away as we get older, some things we miss, some things are quietly forgotten, lost to the ages. I miss that laugh, I miss that man…so it goes. It’s not that my Grandpa and I did a lot of things together, we didn’t fish or hunt, he tried, and failed, to teach me pinochle, we didn’t stroll through the foothills of upstate North Dakota chit-chatting about life and such.

We never “did” much of anything together, but I did get to spend a lot of time around him, and judging by how often he crosses my mind, that was enough. Sharing time and place was all he needed to “do” for me.

My response to his question about my mom was, “You’re over 70, and haven’t grown up yet.” He seemed pleased with that response. He always seemed pleased with life in general, and a year or so later when he finished sharing the news of his terminal cancer diagnosis with me, he concluded by simply saying, without a hint of remorse, “I’ve lived a good life.”

A good life. The philosophers of ancient Greece spent a lot of time discussing, defining and pursuing “the good life” or “eudaimonia”, as they called it. If you Google the word “eudaimonia” you’ll find that it consists of the words “eu”, meaning “good”, and “daimon”, meaning “spirit”. Good spirit. That sounds about right.

Those Greek philosophers could have learned a lot about eudaimonia circling the field with Grandpa in his John Deere tractor, or sitting on the hump between the front seats of his Southwind motor home as his trusty navigator tried to keep him on course. Grandma Rose could have taught Tom-Tom and Google Maps a thing or two about reliable navigation. Plus, neither of those two can make a sandwich to feed to the driver while recalculating a route.

As far as I know, Grandpa never read a book on philosophy, but he could have written one, as it is apparent that he thought deeply, lived fully, and had a firm grasp on what eudaimonia meant to him.

Looking back from the vantage point that time, experience, and simply living life allows, I know that one doesn’t simply have a “good life” handed to them, that it doesn’t just happen, but rather it’s a process.

A process that comes about through shared time and place with good people.

Hello, this is Josh’s wife, Dawn, and I requested to be his guest writer for this week’s article and my husband obliged. I hope you all don’t mind, and I hope I can add a little sunshine to your day.

Two Ellises are celebrating another 365 days around the sun this week. Our son, Jackson, had another one of those important milestone birthdays on July 16th. In looking at him and reflecting on the passage of time, it seems impossible that it’s been twenty-years since he entered into our lives. He has brought us happiness, pride, joy, and oh yes, sometimes added a worry line or two to our faces.

But as Dianne Von Furstenberg once said, “In my older face, I see my life. Every wrinkle, every smile line, every age spot…Your wrinkles reflect the roads you have taken; they form the map of your life. My face reflects the wind and sun and rain and dust from the trips I’ve taken. My face carries all my memories. Why should I erase them?”

What a wonderful quote!

Now on to the elder Ellis and the most important one in my life, my husband. July 17th is Josh’s birthday, which, this year doesn’t happen to be an “age milestone” or anything, but it is a day to celebrate, and it is always nice to hear “Happy Birthday” from family, friends, and acquaintances (Note from Josh: no matter which key they choose to sing in).

Many of you know my husband and how he is such a gentleman, but also an instigator, as I hear he has gotten away with many a prank. He is a creative soul, someone who loves his family deeply, and is witty with words. Some of you may have seen him as an athlete and a boy who grew into a fine young man.

There are times I wished I could have seen him in his high school days with the mullet and rattail (well maybe not that part of him), dashing across the finish line during state track, or during his high school football days, but I didn’t see the boy as he was growing into a man. I saw the boy whom became a man with endearing characteristics of caring, compassion, intelligence, and wittiness.

Josh is the man who puts a smile on my face. That smile is brought on by the love he gives me, the shoulder I sometimes need to lean on, and the laugh that escapes me in response to his odd and quirky remarks. This, and so much more, has contributed to building a love that I cherish.

The type of love I hoped for when I saw how some marriages, even after decades of commitment, can fall apart. A love that grew on the road, as we traveled together in that little two-door Hyundai, powered by squirrels, traveling through the hills and plains, navigating the hairpin turns, and engaging in a delirium of sunflower seed spitting to keep each other awake.

I am lucky. Lucky when he took my hand nearly 25 years ago and keeping my hand and my heart close ever since.

Speaking of lucky, I am also lucky in being with a man who was raised in a family that has a tremendous depth of love for family just as my family does. I witness this deep family love and caring every time I visit ND, or when my ND mom and dad head south and visit us.

My ND mom is such a special person to me, not only because she has opened her heart and her arms to me when I needed it, guiding, loving, and being compassionate during those bumpy times life throws at us, but because she is the mother to the man I love so dearly.

She is a mother who guides, cherishes, loves, and yes, sometimes even curses the children she gave life to. It takes a range of emotions to make them who they are.

My husband has these same traits, a man who loves deeply, cares compassionately, and lives life as it should be.

So if you happen to find someone to walk the path of life with, holding your hand and putting a smile on your face, you have been blessed with a tremendous gift, and like me, you are lucky.

This past weekend I was fortunate enough to take part in a 90th birthday celebration for Doc Stevens. There was a large crowd of well-wishers in attendance, a testament to the many lives Doc has touched over the years.

Last week I was thinking about Doc, and his many contributions to the community of Lignite, and a song began to take shape. When a song begins to take shape one never knows how much effort will be required to get its final form to reveal itself. This one wrote itself.

I had planned on giving the song to Doc sometime before or sometime after his party, but my Uncle Tim had other plans, and not so subtly told me during the party to get my guitar and shut up and sing. Tim’s a good uncle, and a nephew should always listen to a good uncle. I owe him that much for my brothers and I destroying his toys and peace and quiet when we were growing up.

The song’s title is “Doc”, and if you want to strum along the chords are G, D, and C. Thanks for everything Doc, and thank you to his family for putting together a wonderful celebration. A worthwhile hangover indeed.

“Doc”

90-years young they say
Old isn’t old if you don’t see it that way
A renaissance man in Lignite you’ll find
Isn’t much that Doc hasn’t given a try

Built Friday night lights for the football team
Lit up the night so us small town boys could dream
You can find his mark all over this place
Rutabagas for Halloween just to see the look on your face

Chorus:
Welding steel, bending iron
Making wine and beer for all to try
Quilts and mittens for that North Dakota wind
Lignite is home because of people like him

Lost the love of his life a few years back
Some welds break, I suppose life is like that
But he’s got his kids and he’s showed them the way
A torch in the night that refuses to fade away

90-years young that’s what they say
Old isn’t old if you don’t see it that way
A renaissance man in Lignite you’ll find
Isn’t much that Doc hasn’t given a try

Chorus:
Welding steel, bending iron
Making wine and beer for all to try
Quilts and mittens for that North Dakota wind
Lignite is home because of people like him
Lignite is home because of people like him

She woke him at around five in the morning, and said, “We have water in our basement.” He stirred slightly, as a slight stir is generally all he’s capable of at that particular time of the day, and somewhat consciously mustered, “Hmm”, and drifted back to a mostly unconscious state, rationalizing that it surely can’t be that much water.

Rationalizing towards the best case scenario is the default mode when one isn’t ready to be pulled away from their preferred allotment of shuteye.

The mostly unconscious state he had managed to rationalize himself back into was soon interrupted by what sounded a bit like furniture being moved about in the basement. Not so much “moved”, but the halting push, pull, and drag sound objects make when one person is struggling to move more than what one person should be moving.

We are faced with choices of varying magnitude and significance throughout our waking hours each and every day of our mostly upright, mostly breathing existence. Some choices we can choose to not choose a choice. Without our assent they flitter by and drift into the abys of choices not chosen, sometimes never to be seen nor heard from again, but often times not.

The wisdom we gain from the act of living life often informs us as to the choices we should heed and those not in need of our attention, immediate or otherwise. Whether we listen to the wisdom life is laying before us is another matter.

The life wisdom one gains from being married for 23-years informed him that ignoring those halting sounds of struggle would not be wise, and this was a choice in need of his immediate assent.

The earlier settled upon drowsy rationalization that there “surely can’t be that much water” quickly subsided as he stepped from the last basement step onto the basement carpet. The carpet squished beneath his foot, and that squishy indentation soon filled with enough water to cover his foot. With rationalization dead in the water, he uttered a string of words that made the sailor adrift on the ottoman blush.

As you’ve most likely surmised, the “she” and “he” of this tale of the babbling Berber brook is my wife and I. We had plans to spend our 23rd wedding anniversary lounging unrepentantly at our cabin in Montana. We had plans. We had a dry basement. We had dry carpet in our dry basement. We had dry sheetrock in our dry basement. Plans change. So it goes.

Surprisingly, wet carpet is heavier than dry carpet, and much like an intoxicated college roommate, not very helpful in getting itself up a flight of steps. The whole “life wisdom” deal soon had me cutting the carpet into smaller and smaller pieces, as the steps seemed to get steeper and my legs seemed to get stubbier.

Note that I don’t recommend using these same measures with the previously mentioned intoxicated college roommate…most of the time.

It’s been a very wet spring here in the Black Hills, so our basement isn’t the only one that failed to stem the seepage of groundwater. It is the only one that we’ve had to spend large portions of our time and energy attending to, so it is one too many.

I’m well aware that it could be worse, most everything could be, but we had plans.

Each summer I try and immerse myself in the process of increasing my understanding about a particular area of interest and curiosity. As one in possession of (or possessed by) an obsessive brain, a brain that generally hinges on an “all-in” or “all-out” approach to most everything, dedicating specific timeframes to specific things seems to have always been the way of it.

To fellow full-immersion folks, sometimes it’s best to float your boat in what you’ve been given, and resign yourself to the ebb and flow of the currents it produces. Maybe not full resignation, but a somewhat purposeful heading toward the general direction of your curiosities and interests. During that somewhat purposeful drift, also try and maintain the ability to recognize when enough is enough. Often easier said than done.

For instance, and completely hypothetical, recognize that even though eggs are good for you, that eating six a day, every day, until you find yourself repulsed by the thought of an egg is full-immersion gone beyond the “enough is enough” boundary. Or, take heed if someone (hypothetically your wife) suggests that gray suede wingtips are lovely, but four pairs of the exact same pair of them might be enough. As I said, “completely hypothetical”.

Why are some particular things of more interest than other particular things to particular people? Our curiosities are curious.

The cinnamon rolls I made a few weeks ago were of particular interest to me because the memories they evoked are particular to a place, a time, and a person. A person that’s gone now, a place that lingers, and a time that is accessible only to me. So it goes.

To anyone not knowing that place, that time, or that person, those rolls are just rolls. Just some flour, some cinnamon, some butter. But, they are something more. My grandma Rose’s tried and tested recipe are a taste of pure love, the taste of a life well lived.

For whatever reason it’s been several years since I’ve made those rolls, but for whatever reason, it felt like time to give them another go. It felt like time to say “thank you”, time to say “we’ve got this”, time to maybe say “goodbye” a little bit more than I’ve allowed myself. Mostly, I felt like sharing all this with my family, just as she had shared with all of us.

These particular things, tie us to particular people, to particular places, to particular times. We’re all they’ve got. We have the power to give the finitude of their being a bit more time. Perhaps when we give their being a bit more time, when we share their love, their recipes, with those we care for, then we in turn give ourselves a bit more time? Isn’t that what we all want?

As the Roman Stoic philosopher, Seneca The Younger, once said, “Life is long, if you know how to use it.” Spending your time attending to things that bore you to tears, and do nothing to stir interest and curiosity in you, can also make time ease by painfully slow. I don’t think that’s what he meant, but it’s probably what some of Seneca’s fellow Roman’s felt like when he was philosophizing in the bathhouse while trying to get wine stains out of his toga.

Seneca The Younger? Not from this angle.

Life is all about how you look at it, and it looks even better with a tray of Grandma’s cinnamon rolls cooling on the kitchen counter.

Happy Mother’s Day to thee who have gone boldly forward and fully accepted their fate amongst the royal order of the motherly persuasion. Boldly, blindly, delusionally…whatever your state of mind, body, and spirit was when you leaned into being a mom, we thank you. It’s been over 25-years since I took human anatomy in college, but I believe it still stands true, that without you there would be no us.

I suppose that’s one thing all of us have in common. Nine months or so of a muffled front row seat to the world surrounding the womb of the woman that bore us. Once that grand exit is made it’s a crapshoot as to how the story will play out for each of us.

In 2018, Toshiko Kaneda of the Population Research Bureau, calculated that roughly 108 billion people have lived on Earth. She defined “people” as modern Homo sapiens that are thought to have first walked the Earth roughly 50,000 years ago. Billions of births, billions of stories, each with a similar beginning, but wildly varying in content, length, and conclusion. So it goes.

Mother’s Day at our house was a day of this-and-that. The sort of day that frequently occurs when the little ones aren’t so little and parents are left to do whatever it is parents do when their time is mostly their own. It was a calm, sunny morning, a novelty of late, so my wife and I eased ourselves into the day sitting together on the patio, sipping coffee and reading, in the morning sunshine.

Sipping coffee and reading…a now commonplace occurrence that seemed so lavishly foreign just a few years ago. You parents of young kids that still rely on you as their daily entertainment director, for now, your coffee will get cold, and most likely spilt on your unread book. Rest assured, and be warned, that you’ll have plenty of time for those luxuries later.

Until then, Mother’s Day, or any day for that matter, is about you doing what the little tyrants think you would like to do, which just so happens to be exactly what they want to do. The parenthood contract is all fine print, and smudged with grubby little finger prints, so it’s futile to try and decipher any of it, just do your best.

How do you know if you’re doing your best? You only second guess yourself more than half the time, and most nights you don’t really fall asleep as much as you slip fitfully into a dark abyss of self-doubt. That’s doing your best.

For Mother’s Day this year I got my wife a bottle of wine, because my wife is a mother, and wine helps mother’s dislike the father’s that got them into this mother gig a bit less. There are many routes one can take on Mother’s Day, wilted flowers, melted candy, overpriced buffets, maybe even a negligee from you young husbands and fathers that really like to waste money.

Choose wisely…your wife thought she did.

Under the dreaming tree on Mother’s Day

Breezes shift

Branches sway

Birds sing

Shadows dance

Under the dreaming tree on Mother’s Day

Time comes

Memories made

Time goes

Under the dreaming tree on Mother’s Day

Dreams dreamt

Kids play

Under the dreaming tree on Mother’s Day

Love life

Under the dreaming tree on Mother’s Day

Here we go again. Get ready folks, it’s time to start stereotyping and denigrating a new generation of young people. Move over Millennials, pop pseudo-science and the societal scope of scorn, ridicule, and general whining has now been leveled on Generation Z.

Just as fashion and hairstyles find themselves on a twenty- to thirty-year loop, so too does the generational labeling of a group of Homo sapiens who happen to have been born during a certain gap of time. Some fashion and hairstyles are good, and some not-so-good, no matter what timeframe they find themselves in. The same applies to people.

The past few years I’ve noticed that mullets have been trying to rear their ugly heads again, but as a testament to the continual evolution of human intelligence, this time around they haven’t been able to grip the skulls and drape the necks to the epidemic extent accomplished in the 80’s and 90’s.

The little fashion sense I possess, leads me to believe that high-waist jeans and mullets will never take us over completely again. Like the middle-aged guy lingering at the end of the bar in the hip new dance club, they’ll always be on the fringes, waiting and hoping to regain a bit of past glory.

The people sense I have gained during my time in this lovely world, which I hope transcends my fashion sense, leads me to believe that there will always be jerks lingering at the fringes of our day-to-day interpersonal interactions. Jerks of all makes and models, encompassed within and spanning the breadth of each of the arbitrary generational boxes they’ve been put in.

Outliers at the fringes will always exist, but they should not be held up as a representation of the whole. We see what we choose to look at, and believing is often seeing. I believe that the whole of humanity is good. Good and seeking better. Seeking better for themselves, for those they love, and often for those they do not know and may never know. This is what keeps us moving forward.

It’s hard to move forward when you’re stuck in a box. It’s also not nice to stick people in boxes, or so my Grandma told me as she freed my frantic little brother from the cardboard confines I had coaxed him into. Moral of the story for little brothers, when you are assured that the top will remain open, always glance around for a role of packing tape. You’ve been warned.

What is the moral of the story for the Greatest, the Boomers, and the X, Y, and Z generations? Mullets, high-waist pants, and being a jerk are things you will regret, and boxes are small, sweaty, and dark. Sweaty is unavoidable and often desirable in life, but one should resist the stifling closed mindedness of the small, dark banality of the generational box invented to sell books and magazines, generate click-bait, and corral you into a way of being.

A way of being is individual, not generational.

After having to endure several painfully useless meetings at work the past few months, meant to inform us about, and prepare us for, the arrival of Generation Z on campus, I have had enough of this nonsense. I am hereby officially establishing the Generational Differences Denier Organization of People that Happen to Be Human.

Mullets and high-waist pants will be tolerated, but jerks must demonstrate a sincere attempt at redemption.

Nick Linn is a musician I’ve gotten to know here in Rapid City, who plays piano and sings at various bars around town on occasion. The reason I’ve gotten to know Nick is that on most of the occasions he plays, my wife and I generally make a point to go give a listen.

My wife claims I’m his groupie. The word “groupie” seems to imply that there is a group of some sort, so I’m not sure if one person constitutes such? Every proper musician needs a groupie, and I suppose every group has to start somewhere with someone, so a groupie I shall be.

How does a piano man in his 30’s feels about having a man in his 40’s be his groupie? I don’t really care how he feels about it, that’s the sort of stuff musicians have to deal with, not groupies.

In an effort to add more group to his groupies, I asked Nick if he would be willing to come to the campus at Chadron State College, where I work, and put on a concert. Nick agreed, the planning commenced, and I think he successfully acquired a larger following.

The event was relatively well attended by a mix of community members, college faculty and staff, and a few students. When you plan an event on campus, you never know if anyone is going to show up, so I was a bit nervous leading up to it. I didn’t want it to appear as though I coerced him into traveling down to Chadron for my own personal enjoyment.

While we were taking down his audio and visual equipment after the show, we got to chatting about performing in front of people. Specifically, how terrifying it can be, and how despite it going against almost every natural inclination, people still perform. It got me thinking, and what follows is an exploration of Nick’s question, and a cautionary tale regarding the dangers of thinking. Life is simpler as a groupie.

Why are some compelled to willingly, or perhaps begrudgingly, go forth in front of the gaze of the crowd? To vulnerably stand poised, yet humble, look into the breach, and move forward while others remain motionless or recede to their designated places of comfort and safety?

Is it the innate human need to feel competent, the desire to flourish and move towards that which may bring meaning and value to existence? Or is it an act of altruism? A gift to others, intended to inspire action, to convey sentiments of human possibilities, of hope.

To rise up and flourish as an individual for the good of the collective, in the hopes that other individuals will be moved to do the same. A collective composed of flourishing individuals, moving forward from a place of humility with courage, guided by love, curiosity, and wisdom.

Is it an act of selfishness to desire such? Is it naïve, and perhaps a bit delusional, to believe that such is possible? Does the impetus at the helm matter, so long as a better version of the human condition is the aim? Who shall stand and cast that stone? That stone that disrupts the banality of the placid surface, sending ripples of change, of hope, of possibility, infinitely arcing in all directions.

Who shall humbly embody that responsibility? Many have, many will. Will you? Will I? Will we? Someone needs to accept the baton when it is extended, keep it from falling to the ground, keep it moving forward. Keep us moving forward.