Rambling Josh

In July of 1909 my Great-Grandfather, Josef Gins, at the ripe old age of 15, left his home in Durningen Germany, made a 12 mile trip to Strasbourg where he boarded a train for the 400 mile trip to Hamburg. In Hamburg, he boarded the steam ship Cleveland for a two-week, 3800 mile voyage across the North Atlantic to America, where, at Ellis Island, he was given the stamp of approval to enter “The Home of the Free”.

Josef’s parents, Michel and Marie, who were about 59 and 50 years of age at this time, did not make the trip. They stayed behind in Durningen, they never saw their son again. Both of them died in 1912, Marie in April and Michel in June.

I’ve often wondered what Marie and Michel were thinking about during the days leading up to their only son’s departure? What was Josef thinking? We have a few postcards that have survived the years that I had translated a few years back. One was sent to Josef from a train station attendant in Stausbourg, a stranger sending his regards, and hoping that Josef had arrived safely in America and managed to get over his “loneliness”.

Loneliness, at Strausbourg, 12 miles from home, with over 4,000 more miles yet to be put between home and himself.

110 years later, my wife and I are moving our daughter to New York. She has a few film school classmates from college that are in Brooklyn giving it a go, and Sierra is going to join them and give it a go herself. So it goes.

I realize that this move doesn’t compare to the physical and emotional magnitude of that of my ancestors, but I think the trepidation a parent feels when their child makes a move towards the unknown, far from home, has probably been universal across the ages.

There isn’t an ocean between us, there isn’t a two-week journey, but there is distance and there is time. Time and space that can be traversed much more quickly and easily than 110 years ago, but time and space just the same. This time and this space doesn’t seem to concern our daughter as we grow ever closer to departure from South Dakota. She has always been an adventurous one, and has always managed to seemingly, go with the flow, yet simultaneously, blaze her own path.

As J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote, “Not all those who wander are lost”. I agree, not all, but some that are wandering are lost, and it seems to the parent of one who does wander, and occasionally get lost, that wandering lost in New York City may be a bit less desirable than wandering lost in the hills and prairies of South Dakota.

These are the worries that arise when parents make the mistake of Googling crime rates. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, sometimes we have little choice but to let our children go forth into the unknown. Go forth and wander, go forth and get a little lost…just a little.

I suspect she will find a bit more of herself and bit more of who she wants to be with this move, and it is within that suspicion I choose to take solace.

1909 was a long time ago, and someday, so too will 2019. If only our ancestors could see what they started.

“The ground was littered with folks that had fallen from the tree.” What tree? I have no idea. Family tree? Possibly, those branches can get a little slim from time-to-time. Tree of life? We’re all going to fall from that one at some point and time.

I’m not sure what tree, or what folks, I was thinking about when that first sentence came out of my mouth a few nights back while my wife and I were out celebrating our 25th dating anniversary. Words come out in odd arrangements sometimes, that’s what they do, and my wife has endured 25-years of such. Dawn’s a lovely lady, and a quarter of a century in her company has been a good start to the next quarter.

In my defense, there was wine involved, and a charcuterie board that contained some ham that may have been a bit gamey. Gamey duck…expected. Gamey ham…expect a quick exit of all that’s had the misfortune of mingling with it. Until about two years ago I thought “charcuterie” was something that a philandering briquette salesman might contract at a seedy county fair BBQ cook-off where aprons were optional.

Maybe it was a tree from my youth that crossed my mind? The tree I watched my brother Jarvis fall from when we were wee lads living in Palermo, North Dakota, sometime around 1978. That would have made me about 6 and Jarvis about 5. We seem much older in my memories of that time, but memories seem to be fluid and fluttering, and when I think back I suppose I’m thinking back from the vantage point of whatever age I am at the point and time that particular memory works its way back to me.

To be totally honest, I didn’t just “watch” him fall. That would imply that I was an innocent bystander, someone that just happened to be in the vicinity of a tree that happened to contain my brother, who happened to fall out at that very moment. “Innocent bystander” was something I rarely could have rightly been accused of as young boy…young adult…not-so-young adult…

Also, since we’re being honest here, he didn’t “fall”. That would imply that he accidently exited the friendly confines of a tree branch, plummeted quickly to the ground, and landed fairly close to the sneaker clad feet of his not so innocent older brother. To be clear, he wasn’t physically pushed, but may have been verbally prodded.

Books can be dangerous. They can put ideas into people’s heads. Ideas that some heads are not prepared to logically and reasonably examine.

My brother and I had a book that depicted elves fluttering about on leaves. Small elves, big leaves. As fate would have it, we had a tree in our backyard that had big leaves, and I had a small brother. Perfect conditions to run a few tests to verify the legitimacy of “leaf flight”.

I’m sure Orville and Wilbur had similar beginnings. Then Orville decided the popcorn business was less risky, and Wilbur ran off with a talking horse. So it goes.

My doubts concerning elf aeronautics were confirmed shortly after Jarvis firmly held a large leaf under his little backside, and upon my suggestion, leapt from the tree. Twice.

Fall is in the air, and on the ground, catch a leaf while you can.

The fall semester is already half-way to half-way. Four-weeks in, and all is well thus far, good students, enjoyable courses, and a seemingly minimal amount of time wasted in soul-sapping meetings. The course that I am finding the most enjoyable so far this semester is one that I have not taught before, but volunteered to give a go because it seemed like an interesting topic to take for a 16-week spin.

I feel quite fortunate to be a part of a vocation that allows me to explore my curiosities and interests, and share that exploration with students that are willing to open themselves up to the experience. The degree to which this opening up occurs is of course highly variable from student-to-student and day-to-day.

We all have days that we would prefer to be left alone, to just be allowed to be in a space without having to be completely of that space, to be among people and not necessarily with people. Recognizing and allowing this in the present may lead to extended bouts of full engagement in the future…or not.

The reason for the disengagement of a student in your classroom can be for any number of reasons, some of which you have control over and most of which you do not. Maybe they find the revealing snugness of your khaki trousers to be troubling, or your misshapen head to be a distraction. The former can easily be addressed with the Zubaz in you Tickle Trunk, and the latter could possibly be camouflaged with the aid of a smartly tailored beret.

Maybe this new course is so enjoyable simply because it’s new, and the luster has yet to be dulled by the semester-after-semester film that can accumulate on a course you’ve rolled out with such frequency that its roll has regressed to more of a drag…like a body from a musty cellar…so I’ve been told.

Aging and Death is the name of my new course, well actually, it’s not a new course, it’s been around awhile, it’s just new to me. So it goes. So it will go until it doesn’t I suppose.

The portion of the course that students seem to be getting the most meaning from is the Senior Partner portion. Each student had to find someone 65-years old or older who would agree to provide their perspective on various questions every few weeks.

Since I was asking my students to do this I told them that I would as well, and I asked my mom to be my Senior Partner. After some thought, and bit of reluctance, she agreed to take part and lend her thoughts and experiences to the course. Like my students, I have enjoyed the experience immensely.

The book I chose for this course is “Being Mortal” by Atul Gawande, a wonderful book that offers tremendous insight into aging and death. For those that would like to play along a bit at home, here are a few of the questions students, and their Senior Partners, have wrestled with over the past few weeks:

• What do you find beautiful about our aging and death? What do you find troubling?

• How do you think your family would react if you told them, “I’m ready”?

As we prepare to head north to help Dad celebrate his birthday, I ponder firstly, that after 68 birthdays Dad probably doesn’t need any help celebrating, and most likely doesn’t care to celebrate in the first place. Who wants to be reminded that they’re pert near 70? Yes, it’s just a number, but it’s a really big number. Alas, north we head whether he likes it or not.

The second portion of the pondering has me thinking about all the trips we’ve made north. Those trips north started with “me” and progressed to an expanding “we” over the years since the day Mom and Dad moved me and my mullet to the deep south of Aberdeen, South Dakota, back in 1991 to give college life a go at Northern State University.

Like many of the freshman I see sitting in my classroom today, I’m not sure what reason I had to believe that I was “college material” those many yesterday’s ago, but a quilt isn’t made from whole cloth, and little by little a something began to take shape. Something that couldn’t have been planned for, something that just was, something that just is.

The first week or so of college I believe that I cried myself to sleep each night out of sheer homesickness. Actually, more of a silent whimper, quietly pushing tears toward my pillow so as not to make my heavy metal loving roommate think I was some sort of North Dakota momma’s boy. As far as momma’s go, I’ve got myself a pretty good one, so I believe I had every right to shed a tear or two and blubber a bit about being 364 miles away from all I’d ever known.

I headed north every three-day weekend, every mid-term break, every chance I had I pointed the big chrome grill of my 1958 Chevy Biscayne north and headed toward the comfort and certainty of home. Dad bought that Chevy from Harold Pasche in Columbus, and I loved driving that old car, but after seeing the car in front of me spin through the ditch one winter trip home from college, I got spooked about not having seat belts and it was sold. I suppose it would be un-American to be a man that had a car as a boy that he wished he still had. So it goes.

I headed north, because north was where my life was, but gradually my life took shape south of north, and the gaps between trips north began to widen. Not too wide, but wide enough to give me space to grow, to be a bit less of a North Dakota momma’s boy. Just a bit less. Like I said, I’ve got myself a pretty good one.

In that space I met friends I’ll most likely have for life, met a girl who would become my wife, and realized that I could do this, I could do this because of all of them. Those north, those south, those people that formed the quilt that I find so much comfort in.

Happy Birthday Dad. You’re a good one.

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.